Cancer's Sweetest Child


Doth grace God with the body she made


inside her mother's womb —


It gars me draw nigh singing blade


fro eald King Arthur's tomb.


Each cell's rainbow mitosis


golds flame creatures my eyes can eat,


Whilst most girls stamp tame features


in combed moors of rotting meat.


From pussy strikes the hip & leg


that stretch down to her toes —


Pubescence creams prompt tits men beg


to squash against their nose.


As long as I am Lancelot,


my sword in heap big trouble,


I slive the sweet girl Cancer got


from cells she liked to double.