There you go, and go again,
you Amelia Earhart of sex,
stall-spinnin' all over the bed,
rattlin' the poor neighbors'

windows, revvin' up my bum,
praisin' God and the ceiling,
gallopin' your hips, believin'

every damn last thing I do,
wet enough for the two of us
to sail away, cursin', ready,

openin' your eyes, balloonin',
collapsin', leavin' eight long
red-red runways up my back,

and damn it all to holy Hell—

it's time, it's time, it's time—

praise your sweaty thighs,

I'm butt flung,

brain-dead,

roarin',

fallin',