by p q laertes
The Joker's fingers, long and wild,
will curve around your skull, my child,
or, long and seeking, twitch, and rise
and touch a place between your thighs.
His mouth is sweet and hot and wide,
his tongue will find its way inside.
And then dark Gotham's orphan daughter
will jerk and sink, and fade thereafter,
slide to the smeary streets that taught her
and sleep, enfolded in his laughter.