Brittany
The cage door closes
and he is someone’s daughter,
someone’s Brittany,
passed around like butter,
bottom bunk bumping
and lipstick for the pig,
commissary property and certain
protections on the yard;
the guards running drugs and numbers,
more favours in Favourland…
our little Brittany sent to the infirmary
to be sewn up brand new;
no one likes a loosey goosey
when all you have is Time.
Horror Sleaze Trash 