Fire and the Feast by Nick Cooke

I am not a silent poet

For the girls choosing self-immolation rather than surrender


You want fire

From your hot little mama

Your hot little nine-year-old mama

Hot little nine-year-old mama of a bride

And she gives you a fire

And the rich aroma of a feast

And when you walk in and whiff it

You might think this girl’s a decent cook

And rub your hairy hands

With thoughts of a winter’s supper

And a lovely lipsmacking bonus later on

Between the newly washed matrimonial sheets

Where the child exchanged

For a sliver of your life’s hoard

Will arise like the flaming sword

And sear the clouded heavens open

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