June 6 by The Running Son
A Quest for a Love Potion ♂
Go now, through willow’d woods—through snow,
past first faery-sprouts topping fresh wood-glow,
where munk-beevles croon, making home and hearth,
and all wise virginal hearts shed clothes.
There moons, exposed, hide from a rogue earth.
So at crescent time–at fortnight’s prime worth,
take ye that member every man hath unfurl’d
and slice it clean, from orbs to girth.
The ancients sent petitioners questing for pearls.
They demanded islands, they requested worlds.
To save time, and to avoid a sad slack-jaw birth,
Present thy wood-flute, severed—then you’ll have
(; Jim haha
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