She bursts and she beams, incurable virus
Of grandness she gleams
She catches and binds us

She is her own cure, a medicine pungent
A swell-smelling lure
Tastes sweet, not repugnant

She swells me with tears, though not of great sadness
She quells all my fears with kind, ceaseless gladness

I am fully infected like a sponge thus imbued
Symptoms plainly detected
She feasts on me like food

She cannot be touched, yet she touches me so
A gimp must be crutched to make fast come of slow

She chucks and she chorts, both sniggers and snickers
A silly sward snorts
A mute even flickers

I am that said gimp
I need her to touch me
That simper so simp
That giggle of such glee

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