Inks, minx, the old witch winks,
The fat begins to fry;
Nobody home but jumping Joan,
Father, Mother and I.
Stick, stock, stone dead,
Blind men can't see;
Every knave will have his slave--
You or I must be he.
Not actually racy art, I know; but I've been neglecting this thing. I may have some Aeon Flux-related art up soon, if I'm lucky. Art production is at an all-time low. Something's missing, perhaps.
...Oh. Right.