If we’re vaginas, she was a curtain
Or veil, as she used to repeat to
us
I, too, was meant to be a veiled virgin
But found my vagina with thanks to his
Cold shovelhands searching, thanks to
your veil,
And thanks to blood gushing down through the
halls—
Not quite as scary as Jack told the tale.
As if he wasn’t seated on his balls
Just busting at his typewriter all day,
Grabbing the keyboard with his shovelthumbs.
He bust it and blood broke through the
doorway
Now, I call it a certain time that
comes.
You know, I still think he should have
laughed more;
It’s clear his wife certainly knew what for.
