Her apex is in the snowy clouds
Gilding the lily, her callipygian
nates are a peachy plage
made cleft by Air on the G String

Tryst fingers and papyrus: Benjamins
flutter like cherubic ilium, set free

these pink digits shift the brothel tectonics of the bewitching grue’s
equator like thong:

out of her balmy cleft comes Bach’s
g-string and into this tombal sapor
goes an olisbos.

A beautiful, sapphic uranist and a
Lolita slammerkin have an orgy:
it’s just the hedonist business of
pleasure as usual.


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