Asexual

Everything is a carbon copy
Squeezing-out of the original
Take that brunet, transsexual,
Nonchalantly-surveying, but genial
All fur coat and no knickers so trashy.

Longing to be a female
Might as well of been born an Airedale
Such legs as hers were meant to be female.
Such analytical tales of a tawdry life:
Could only come from; a misused, housewife.

If ever she were to become a genuine angel.
Wouldn’t she then wish to be a male?
Every spore in every cell with less regale
Of cause we were all once asexual:
So to be without sin; truly is to be original.