Cleft for my knob is the slitty. . .
workin’ in my staff with a slight delay.
But soon it has crossed: inward it is leapin’;
buryin’ belaying pin—drive it in.

Big wield—seed spawn germ in,
prowed Mary keeps on squirmin’.
Polin’, polin’, polin’ till she quivers.

Gleaned was my substrate of spending
pumped into domain round with sluice bore seamed,
lovely, like a maw in which I put my fishy—
my big fish sticks inside of this quimmer-moat, teemed.

Big wield seeps on her in,
prowed Mary keeps on squirmin’.
Polin’, polin’, polin’ till she quivers.

Festooned with down is her quiver.
Yessir, poon is fine when pee pole there lives.
The opening furry, unless wax from honey
bees is put on then ripped off till shagginess gives.

Big squeal ’cause it’s burnin’;
loud Mary gets de-furrin’.

Shows skin, shows skin, shows skin now, her quiver. . . .