Atop my head, sir, is
my hair
worn loose or coiffed
to suit the
time of day or the
company I keep
--luxurious, is it
not? And it will
take a tug or two
should
passion demand it.
My eyes, sir, are for
seeing and for
telling an intuitive
soul what
roils within my
otherwise
hidden heart—they are
green,
are they not? and they
are not averse to perusing a
handsome form and all
its attributes.
My mouth, sir, is for
eating and drinking and
smiling (for you do
not want to see the
purse of my unhappy
lips, tighter than
any Exchequer) –are
those lips
red, sir? and plump
and unafraid to be
dyed white by a man’s
exuberance.
These arms, sir, can
carry and clasp and
these hands—are they
not delicate and
unadorned?—can caress,
make the
soft hard and hard
soft again. Are they
not
extraordinary hands,
sir?
These, sir, are my
breasts: they
feed children and,
when not tender,
enjoy the attention of
those who
please to play the
child’s role
--bounteous, are they
not? and
bounty should be
shared.
Behind this
well-wooded copse, sir, is
my vagina, from which
by nature’s whimsy
men go in and babies
come out
--luxuriant, is it
not? When it purrs it
answers to puss but
harsher names have
sometimes not
displeased.
A neglected path, sir,
meanders to
my anus, designed to
void my waste but,
as all you
well-brought-up young men seem to know,
curiously amenable to
insertion
--is it not dark and
comely when I
bend for you like this?
These sites of
interest, sir, sit upon legs of
surprising strength
for one
so slender, ending in
feet capable of
spurring the most
sturdy of steeds to
superhuman speed, when
speed
spurs spending.
Is my miscellany a
pleasure, sir, or too
complicated to
comprehend? Is it just my
sturdy thighs you wish
to ride? Or
can you find your way
into the
sturdy heart that
makes all these parts,
all these interwoven
parts,
work as one?
