"It's a Picasso!" she smiled.

Picasso imagined his penis (always!)

like an warm opium pipe

ready for stroking and sucking,

constantly ready to continue the quest

to satisfy only himself

with a new Goddess, 

if she would promise

to swallow him like a long sip of absinthe.

for solace, he once painted a scene

as background for a famous Russian ballet 

of a massive horse head slightly smaller than his ego,

full of color with two sturdy testicles for ears.

in his studio he was the absolute master of any

situation involving female breasts, enlarging,

distorting, playing with realism like a curious infant

fond of the tidal surge and the summer sun over Paris. 

once, when a pampered princess asked for his autograph,

he pretended to be seized with disgust and quickly drew her face as a black vagina.

she was intrigued, and asked him about his idea of feminine seduction;

he said

it consisted of a bathing belle in nude attire,

playing with beach balls inside his private cabana.

she asked to see his tent,

and in his fertile imagination

the curtain door flapped shut, 

her spacious mouth wonderfully opened.

“It’s a Picasso!” she smiled.