My hinterlands are definitely shining.
They're polished and pliant,
with a darker brown spot of Merlionsman oil
just above where furrow first starts to bury itself into the soil
of my Kristang ass, chunky and very refined.
A little spit-and-polish, but then, who doesn't mind
a big cheeky brown monkey --- what an image you'll tend to find
of us; either that, or
some form of tawny and very regal big cat,
sometimes sun-soaked and built with just the right proportions of muscle and fat.
Most people writing about us tend to go into too much detail,
and I must follow precedent.
There is a fairly interesting spread of
things that were never intended to be prescient,
but I digress.
You pick up what you can, when you and your people are treated
like rats, like people that you never seem to find time to understand.
Proportionately speaking ---
but why speak of proportions?
Because if we're going to, then I demand
you recognise that darker brown spot on my rich, juicy ass,
and how irregularly well-developed the epigenetic conditions have been forced to tend
to ensure that it, and I, one day get to see the sun.
To make sure that all the really colours really do get to run
down your leg, or dribble, if you're so inclined;
just because I'm quing of the scrapheap in your mind
doesn't mean we can't have some fun.
You have no idea what else comes alive
under my pen,
and inside your mind where you pretend
it's all not thicc and tan*—
a sight for sore eyes
and very dirty lies.
(*and if it is actually squeaky clean, then I want whatever Town Council you're having!
Mine definitely needs a reprieve).
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