*For the woman whose elusive appeal accompanies the fleeting veil of ignorant inebriation.
My Sacred Gertrude,
Your beauty mirrors a fallen angel,
As if you crashed into the earth.
Gnarly hair and muddy eyes.
Even Lucifer would not offer you fruit.
My Soft Gertrude,
Your hands tenderly caress like pigeon toes,
As if steel wool was layered over jagged gravel.
Crusted callouses and lifeless fingers.
Even sandpaper would not survive your grip.
My Sweet Gertrude,
You scent is excruciatingly exotic,
As if you lived in an abandoned barn.
Steaming vinegar and sour mold.
Even skunks would be envious of your musk.
My Scrumptious Gertrude,
Your kiss relentlessly torments taste buds,
As if your lips are glossed with rubbish.
Pickled milk and rotten lemon rind.
Even rats would cringe at a peck.
My Spirited Gertrude,
Your voice pierces through the innocent sky,
As if it is scratching against a chalkboard.
Itchy rasp and shrieking breath.
Even banshees would flee from the sound.
My Dear Gertrude,
Your company is no longer desired.