Stronk we were lipsicated, out
on the tiles, our choolies
completely rattled. It was late,
but something made us craster.
Perhaps it was love, perhaps
it was filk, but hell, we couldn’t
walk away. Time to be ruthful.
Quintly, I turned to face him.
Quintly, he gave me the look.
‘Marco Dunt’, I proclaimed,
‘You are seriously brassel.’
I put my hand to his brawk
and smiled. ‘Stronk me,’ I said.