Your Dae* brakes; you've mined fakes,
"Diamonds" and say, I've splurged"; you put the finger con
On and then dawn, a sweet moue.

The hake's sup; you take sup—
She bakes with thyme;
Her donuts feel like leaden slurry.
You're a hog; she feeds you.

And in her pies, you see nutmeg,
So, sigh'n', you lunch on pie in tiers.
Spy the faux one
She loves and you bragged was DeBeers®.

You vaunt her; you knead her;
You say you would beleave her in Eden
To thwart eatin'. . .
She eschews feed moue.

But it's her "aye"s you seek; nuts beg
For sine of love: 45 rears,
Primed for stow fun,
A love like wooden-masted piers.

You stay homed on her pout.
Unsated schlong's a go;
You'll hew son, John
If she won't spawn—
You can't dump seed in.

Her Dei breaks; her mind shakes
Off all the signs in thrall
To the blinged head
Who'd filled with dread,
His flock in fetters.

A din: their cries,
An "enough!" beg,
You sigh then, "Stuff it in your ear!
Ai!! Forge no pun;
This stuff could make us gag, it's clear!!!"


*Daewoo, nearly, if not, defunct Korean car-maker