Men O' Pause

I must quickly  batten down the hatch;
the crawl space to my key hole must latch
Hairy grooves covered with bloody thatch,
but your callous tendrils can screen scratch.

From within, flaming portent does braille
don't pretend, spouting shaft cannot quell.
On my hot stove, a red algae swell,
lusty hands the dark tide cannot spell.

A musky odor the rim girdles,
if your delicate nose so hurdles,
a steaming, mucusy soup curdles,
only sterilized lips dare gurgle.