Down To Hell
P Patti Masterman
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She strokes with thighs of polished silk
Her lover, to finish him off;
If she had birthed, he'd drink her milk.
Her glistening flesh he's famished for,
Her musky sex is poised to please;
He's raised her up upon her toes,
Making her beg him, finish please!
Her clothes fall down at his soft touch
From him, she's always craving more-
And avarice avails her much.
This hunger feeds the paler flesh,
That's hid by lace, but thinly veiled;
Don't make us choose, when it comes to this:
We'd gladly go on down to hell..
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