"Why?" you cry. "Why?"
You have slept with every guy
from el barrio to the country club,
from Brownsville to Matamoros,
from McAllen to Reynosa,
from San Antonio to Monterrey,
from Denver to D.F.
and you ask why?
I don't kiss you.
I don't hug you.
I don't hold you.
I don't love you.
You soiled our felicity
with your promiscuity.
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