Pisstake of romantic era, about BDSM. If reading aloud, crudely force the fourth line to rhyme with the second. The idea is that the poem becomes more intense and affectionate as it progresses, reflecting the development of relationships.
Three and twenty winters ere,
discharged bloody from the womb.
Now life's spat you out right here,
dripping with my cum.
Our dual, mind and form entwined:
your harvest, in moonlight, basks.
This fell eve is yours, Samhain:
chocolate and masks.
Jelly moulds and rolls of silk;
sweet fidelity and whores.
We fuck within their dead ilk's
sepulchral doors.
I wonder if that cold host,
that bound, chained and buried crew,
seeing us, would raise a toast:
happy birthday, you.
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