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The Whisperer

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I see you open up your lips
That artificial, cherry spear
And just beneath, those bleach white tips
Your two front teeth rudely appear
You turn abruptly in your seat
And lean over towards her ear
Peering at me with ominous heat
Your pupils darkening with the lengthening stare
I return the gaze, unmoved in my chair
As you begin your coquettish vignette
And on your cheek I can spot a tear
A merciful drop of guilty sweat
I cross my arms and wait for you patiently
While those loquacious lips continue to speak
Moving as if they're screaming blatantly
From an unscrupulous raven's beak
Disgusted by this timely event
I give you a glare that you cannot ignore
And your lips slowly shut as you start to repent
You are not a whisperer anymore



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