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Thigh-highs on tight, serving sleepy panache.
Too hot for his fur, he ditched it with flair,
Now struts through the con with tail in the air.
The AC is dead, the crowd’s in despair,
But John’s still glowing-pure femboy affair.
He naps on a mat, curled up like a fox,
Dreaming of mangoes and iced paradox.
A wink, a yawn, then back on his feet-
Mustache still perfect, despite all the heat.
So raise up your paws, give glam its due-
John’s furry, flamboyant, and hotter than you.