To hunt for your cunt. To follow your spine
to the shrine of your ass wrapped in knickers.
Depraved. Shaved lips stretch as you recline,
draping heels around my neck. Worshipers
revere their sacred but I just cock-spank
your clit and call it prayer. To soil, defile
first one worships. The soul of all Love’s rank
and vile run riot in me. Will you smile
each time I sheathe myself in your behind?
Pull out to push in, again. Oui, chéri,
your son shall seethe when he sees me buried
balls deep. Call this position, “Gods Enshrined.”
My faith lies in all that’s pervy, curvy,
fusty luggs. Gods phat with children, married.
“Fusty luggs,” much like, “Venus Observa Feminae,” is an archaic term for tribadism.