poetry nausea!

"what do you do with your poems"
a slut asked me!

i said:
"i sleep with them,
they are my mates and
i am a polygamous poet, and
each poem,
they inhibit my fertile appellations
within each strand of belief, and
in the subsequent morning..."

she undid my eloquence and little subjectively
continued:
"do they beget children?"

i have a quaint look at her
then explained:
"my textuality,
at times figuratively overwhelm the congenial serviles
like wombs ready for cross fertilisation
and, we beget epigrams
in the subsequent mornings"

after a brief gasp
she said:
"is this your slutty poem
that i have been waiting for my response"

i said:
"no my dear!
i can, no longer, read hymns for you"

little later
i died in her lap!