“There seem to be matryoshkas everywhere,”
She said through tawdry teeth with bated breath
I chortled like a hawker at the fair
As if I was a simile for death
“Matryoshkas know who chooses to believe,”
She brushed aside my laughter-bathed-in-guilt
I said the damned matryoshkas could deceive
Because that’s just the way that they were built
“They’re built like little gods that come apart”
She whispered through her veil in puffs of blue
I wanted to believe, but had to fart
And thought I heard them call: “Coo, coo, ca-choo”
And so our worship turned to Russian Dolls
We see them everywhere in hallowed halls.
Tags: joint, marijuana, matryoshka, Mrs. Robinson