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(1 of 2, receiving)
Gander me props, stare without stops.
Watch as you turn flesh into steel.
The few I’ve laid, the many I’ve prayed
Have done nothing to lessen your flame.
The older you get, the bolder you grow
The brighter the burn of your name.
Your crescent thin lips, your brown wink and slim hips,
Though once were, are no longer the same.
And worse is your curse, your storm killing my calm,
I can’t help but choke on my shame.
For Midas can’t touch the thrill of your rush,
As I go from become to became.
Not your first, but your last, you will reach, your hand grasp,
And I will buckle while you gag on my fame.