The Mothercunt Sonnets (2)

My Mother filled her stockings well.
Her skirt would often ride
Up to her garters when she fell
Asleep. Of course, I eyed

Her nyloned--yes, that post-War brand
Had seams--her gams--that term
Was current. Steering with one hand
I'd frottage forth my sperm

So pungently that Mom would stretch
And sniff. "Where are we, Son?"
"In Kansas, Mom." She'd seldom fetch
Her dress back down. Such fun

We had before we fucked. We volleyed teases,
The Mothercunt and I, while serving Jesus.