Tyree Daye
This Black Southern Poor Boy’s Blues
I’m no choir boy, nopreacher’s son. Fasting is never doneon purpose. Gin or thighs helps me sleepand both make me forget me for a moment.Most nights she tells me she loves me,others blanket us in silence, when even our orgasmsdon’t speak. I like Saturday night fixes,whatever Johnny brings back from New York City. I’m no …