I see them in you.
You’re all born knockouts,
Bursting bombshells.
Violently proportioned
And genocidally alluring.
Your airbrushed faces were made with the launching of ships in mind.
Baby,
I want to paint your hourglass silhouette on Bushmasters and sell them at gun shows,
And circulate pictures of you stabbing the desert floor with the spiked bottom of an
RW&B flag.
I dream of Liberty leading the people
With one breast casually exposed.
I dream of You.
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