There is enough sweet bottom-grass around
this, your pleasant fountain, to keep me drunk
all day. Some eat to excess. I have drowned
in my own swampy needs, in others’ spunk,
as if cum were a rare commodity.
When I’m in collar and chains I will lick
it all up. When you show me your country
life, I delight in your porn and chronic.
I get grave stone in your sweet bottom-grass.
I stay down for days. But what sort of seed
does one need to plant where wild sassafras
grows wild on your clit? — all goo and honeyed.
There’s no seed. Just tongue up on the downstroke,
drowning, swallowing you until I choke.