With warm amber finding it’s way through the window panes.
I lay like an old rugged picker who sleeps on the lonely lanes.
Clothes torn and shades of crimson oozing from my lower lip.
Who’s going to win this battle of the sexes below my hip.
Your fingers made of fine molten copper and drops of ambered tody.
I lay still as they find their way through the Everest escapades of my body.
The night is young unlike me for ill take my own time to cum.
As you devour every inch of me, it feels like Christmas and me, a cake made of rum and plum.
The bottles on the table is empty and I sense that you’re thirsty.
I have something better to serve as the spread got better when I turned thirty.
I push you down like a hammer hitting the nail of a broken chair.
As the curtains to my show opens, the smell of something old fills the air.
I was taught to feed the hungry but this is just an act of parody.
I start to see stars on the ceiling, the moans awakened the their innermost feeling.
As I watch you go back to your teething days, you chew in so many different ways.
Like a well made dessert that hits the spot, oh shut up for a while now when I serve you something hot.