Did Ghislaine Love?

I would troth my love of love to sweet a baby sweet, a child, born of a manger, a manger at the top of Tramples Towers, celestial so to swing, a newborn kin king

Kin me to Eppie-J, and kin some more, and lullaby, hail to the chief, but you aren’t interested in me, nor what gift of billions and billions, universes tripped and trapped by the black and emptiness of no babes in sight, no babes delight,

No rip of a whip, or wrap of a vape, no silent night recuperating from rage,

Ghislaine a MILF?

Or wanna wanna Lackawanna M wanna IF minus an L, F minus a MIL, and Lackawanna names a gentle rain, Walt Whitman, in bliss, tracks down that name, holding his broad brimmed, but not cowboy, hat, held upwards as a– you need fresh water, necessary, to Ghislaine, harbored in a 9 East 71st Street POS, gotta dig deep.

A loveless MILF?

Is there any other kind?

This might suggest “MILF” combines sacred and profane. An exemplar of what we consider warm intimacy immaculate touch and a cheap quick disposable instantaneous discharge of anxiety.

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