Like a fife, lingual joy.
He push in face the organ of taste and words that can cloy.
Titty bites? No nips tonight.
When you respire, he won’t retire. . .requires delight.

He place it in ya, your clenchèd lips part.
Dental battlements, no chance
to rebuff that tongue tough, once it gets a start.

No easy task.
He’s a smooch osculator,
smooth osculator,
tooth osculator.

Gropes the throat, all way to chicks’ grotto where drains ale
after it’s poured in mouth, a streamed cargo, hopped and pale.

Tasting face—moll maw-maul haste.
To her voice box, the glossal fosse*. . .
proceeds apace.

The licentious tongue is surging; its goal:
meld with where morphemry is controlled.
This guy likes to wrangle in your piehole.

You’ll need a mask.
He’s a smooch osculator,
tooth osculator,
bouche-smooch invader.

Gropes and probes, all way down chicks’ glossolalia swale.**
After it soars in mouth, no embargo, no avail.

A teethy task.
He’s a smooch osculator,
bouche osculator,
uvula grazer.


*ditch (rhymes with “loss”)
**glossolalia: speaking in tongues; swale: valley-like intersection of two slopes, among other definitions