Come to my room and indulge in something etchy.
Squash me! Pommel me! Brain me!
Slap me! Feel me! Knead me!
Like the way I think I need you,
Don’t stop doing the things you do
Squares and circles, circles and squares,
Shape me, bend me, I have no cares,
Squares and triangles, equilateral will do,
Squares and all other things too.
Blatant sex swims swimmingly in my head.
I long to breast stroke with you in my bed,
Make my pop up toaster pop!
Take the cream from this old milk sop.
Xylophone ribs, I have a whistle
It not be bone, it not be gristle,
Would you like to give it a toot?
Place your finger, pretend it’s a flute,
Play with my horn rhino rhino
You don’t get carpet burns on the lino,
Horns are a battle cry
You might like it so give it a try
Cry salt tears, salt lakes, salt in cakes
Flour me up and set me to bake
The better butter is known to be bitter,
I’m not known to be a quitter
Abandon all hope, never lose the soap
It dangles on a rope,
It never rises just slopes,
A pope on a rope made of soap,
Is reason enough to give up hope,
Doubtless that I could ever cope
With such slippery suds in buds
That float in this bath tub of lust
But some things are a must
To do or die or bust
Back to images of breasts yet again.
I seem to have a fixation.
mudcrow
1999
