It's a sort of devil, she moaned.
The moaning, I said, that's beautiful.
She moaned more.
I'm getting turned on, I said.
It's a sort of death, she mooed.
Moo on! I said. Moo on with your bad self!
I was always talking like that.
I had identified a new species, but I wasn't sure.
Be sure, she mocked. Mock on, I spat.
As if, by peer pressure, she mocked more.
There is no club you can join now, she warned.
Listen, I said, I feel plenty warned, you can back off with the warnings.
The warning was wearing on me, but I was more turned on.
The turning, she said, that's the real issue.
And, as if by force, the wind blew the newspaper.
I wailed. A stream formed. Ashes went forward.
Next stop: the devil, she purred.
She was always purring then.