Six. Twilight's mixing it with night.
Chill winds whip grit in swirling flight.
His dim-lit sink's nigh. Jim slips in.
It stinks - illicit highs, sin, gin.
Fit fibbing Jill in mini-skirt
Is dishing vivid bitching dirt:
"Did drippish Linzi rip Dick's shirt?
Thick girls will fight; slim girls'll flirt."
Jim, grinning, sips his drink. In sight's
His impish Mimi, jiving in pink tights.
His mind's igniting. "Bliss," Jim sighs,
"Is glimpsing pinkly twinkling thighs."
If you've any comments on his univocalic
poem, George Simmers would be pleased to hear from you.