Advice Will be Heeded Even as You Attempt to Head

The fuckwad says, my dear, my doughy dewy doe-eyed dimple,
you mustn't attempt to think while you Sphinx. You
mustn't leave the room now, for you haven't ever yet.
And what will Odd Job think? What will he odious
pus in the empty nest with a piddle of wire and a prong?
What will he when he gets in your grille and finds
that you've gone?

Look you after that corset, which strings trick you out
and whip you floss again. Look you above, a halo
to still your roving mag eye. Taken won't you? With
his obliging fig paw? His homoeothermic enterprise?

The fuckwad says, really, a number of wolves?
Think you not actually mice in the glut? Oughtn't you ignore
mice, foul weather, other shod feet shambling? Whatever
the world, it hasn't called. It hasn't lifted your lip.