Nabokav's balls sit in a wooden box I keep on my beside table
One end is smooth sack and the other is jagged, like little roots
Or many bloody uvulas, flapping without sound perhaps
My best friend has the balls of Kerouac
My roommate claims to have one of the testicles that belonged to John Muir
But it's so pulverized it's genuinely hard to tell.
Please, tell me again what it is: literature?
Is it fantasy?
A lesson to be learned?
A radical political expression?
An original thought?
If you're curious
Nabokov's balls smell like little girl.
One end is smooth sack and the other is jagged, like little roots
Or many bloody uvulas, flapping without sound perhaps
My best friend has the balls of Kerouac
My roommate claims to have one of the testicles that belonged to John Muir
But it's so pulverized it's genuinely hard to tell.
Please, tell me again what it is: literature?
Is it fantasy?
A lesson to be learned?
A radical political expression?
An original thought?
If you're curious
Nabokov's balls smell like little girl.
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