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."

George Simmers

If you've any comments on his univocalic poem, George Simmers would be pleased to hear from you.