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By coujeaux Date: 2005 Sep 25 Comment on this Work [[2005.09.25.15.34.23503]] |
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Miss Machspeed Masochist met Big Brother Backdoor Blueball Blackbook and they boogied on cue, Come a-pretzelin' nightstand later and he ain't gonna date her; she sports a stretchmark tattoo. Figured if he brought a lovespasm to her deepspace edenchasm it wasn't a waste of a threehole, And she bragged to no end about how far she could bend him 'round her finger, she's in control. Call me call me call me, 'twas only you could enthrall me like this, now she wants a kiss; but no, He pulls back his head and turns to the door instead, invoking the Lone Ranger's outro of "Hi yo!" Streetwalkin' and sweet-talkin', he or she could be any we, you see; a get-it-on-and-get-gone set, Simplify your beddy-bye, just don't bother to ask why, then turn off those lights if you haven't yet. Little squeaks and foamstreaks fill the need, you're a friend, indeed and his seed gardens will sow, Thrust, thrust, thrust, in God she must trust, 'cause He she loudly invokes each time he pokes low. It's a bit rougher 'cause she lets him handcuff her, a first time for everything, slavecrave rammer, Move her and shake her, flip her and take her, sermons from the mount in a wavelength stammer. Turn the tables to spin the fables when love's been thrown around like a frisbee, so fetch boy fetch, Says he's gonna be mine to build egos on an assembly line that snatches up an unsuspecting wretch. Welcome to the last-chancer, a no-romancer and next-best answer; three's company in a git-'er done, Nothing left to chance, as they approach she screams "you're the one, you're the one, you're the one!" Triple bump and grind, while they don't seem to mind, it's kinda impersonal; a sunrise surprise in store, Splayed on the bed, windmill pose, she's descended from the throes; each of them came back for more. 08/07/2005 Author's Note: XXX XVIII, Poem #7. |