She is a cold and clamy fellow,

From vagrant and salty throats bellow.

The destitute and the naive are her kindred,

Those who befall her wail, be met with dread.

A prophetess clad in skin of the oyster,

A being who mind and wild fear unconsciously to cloister.

Her snaggletoothed cow maw lined,

Ten thumbed hands mutter ill-defined.

Twelve score listless drunken slug eyes,

Wander anarchistically,

Her only companions amidst constant forgotten cries.

A disjointed kangaroo body serves her well,

Venturing through nexus of urbane hell.

A single cyclopean stare lodged in middle,

All of its lofty comrades serve to meddle,

Thin strains of line,

trickle upwards back,

Into polypous pearly orbs none can define.

Her saving grace,

Her comely female frame,

The only remains from her race,

But none come close to see,

They revile her with shame.

"Oh hallowed hypocrite,"

She wailed aloud,

"Thy will be done. Save thy servant from this grit."

But none understand her words, all that emerges be swirled.

She served the headless god,

But as her form took to shape,

The hedonism, the pleasures, came to plod.

Even now in the night, her mouth agape,

The headless god of pleasure avoids her prayer.

In those vagrant and salty alleyways of men and other things,

She mutters wildly to seduce those fellows, her voice muted rings.

"One more, one more," she cries, perhaps then the headless god might hear.

This wanton phrase was taken by the townsfolk to be her name, and misunderstanding, "More-More."

They do not understand her, and sense a mockery of their laws and ways, "More-More."

But in the dim and salty nights, she begins her wails and prowls, "More-More."

That decrepit elfin flea-ridden acolyte of hedonism, on whom the moons fear ray,