Dandyism, even mere contemporary jackanapery,
Makes homage possible, daily, to the likes of you,
A species redolent of more than common cleavage.
No altricial chick, your profligated flesh compares to sour laundry,
Why pretend to hide your precious sacristy, to be underimpressed
With people commandeering window offices or crenellated opinions?
Hug-seeking husbands, missing notice, and youths wanting “motherly” adorations,
All leave fresh trails of litter streaming from your technological kitty box,
Where neither kanga nor fitted skirt cover your most important portcullis.
No known palliative cures such habit, turns dyscrases into moral abattoirs,
Otherwise exchanges totipotent behaviors for epicene moves.
Destiny declares, instead, that your knees will remain extant on the Internet.
