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Sweet Distant Cake

The nicest thing any man has done for me lately, and not very lately but lately enough, was give me an impromptu visit with a piece of cake.

I would have used diamonds for sandpaper.
Roses for my bath.
A ring for drug money. 

But cake is one of those things... you could fuck it if you wanted to-but you don't. It commands an endearing respect. It's the principle of it-more importantly, it was the principle of the fact that it wasn't fete accompli pussy cake. I don't know you exceedingly well but I know you well enough that you wouldn't have been so moronically debonaire as to impose your sensual rhetoric through diabetic bribes.

Oh my word that cake was a treat,
but the man who brought it was a bona fide hero-

For me?

All the way here?

You didn't have to-
But you did!

Well! I'll have to bake you a pie sometime.

I'll send it in the mail for you.
Although, it won't look very nice by the time it gets there-
So maybe a crumble instead.

You can eat it in the desert,
and even if you can't remember my name,
it will taste as delicious as if you did.


But I'll bet those gals bake a mean Boysenberry pie.

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