All we need is Love

Pick me roses;
I'll give you every
flower that I have.
We're posed for our part
in this game of numbers where
the larger you are
the less likely you are
to fall. It's fair to say
"The more the merrier"
is the mantra by which
we live; our only
purpose is to procreate, to
produce more to strip,

exhale their CO2,

and lay with you and I.

Handcuffed to your bedpost,
I am the host to a
parasitic lock, this old
ball and chain our only
method of spreading
this message of holy
uniformity,
of devouring animosity,
isn't it obvious that mass
is the only way we
have to squash
this awful unrest about which
our planet is so wholeheartedly
screaming?

We have made this place
Heavenly:
"love thy neighbor,"
"excuse my misnomer,"
"pardon my lateness, mister,
I've a perfectly good reason."
Population is the
solution to our problems.
Find your number,
you're ready, Flower.
Writhe and spasm.
Genuflect to our
intercourse. We worship
our god as Orgasm,
and I have learned the importance of
taking off my clothes.