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deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Woodland Air
The morning sun still heats the woodland air,
The bramble blossom and the clover heads:
These will be crushed, once he's reached down to tear
Her dress right off; and she has knelt to pledge
Allegiance to his virile member; lips
Will part so loyally, as he intrudes:
The shaft follows the cock head, so the tip's
Pressed right against the throat; and it exudes
Such confidence, it is bound to be sucked
With joyous resignation by the slut,
Who wants that grip to ensure she's face fucked -
It is his right; before they start to rut,
He presses her right down, so brambles tear
Her flesh; as she inhales the woodland air.
M
The bramble blossom and the clover heads:
These will be crushed, once he's reached down to tear
Her dress right off; and she has knelt to pledge
Allegiance to his virile member; lips
Will part so loyally, as he intrudes:
The shaft follows the cock head, so the tip's
Pressed right against the throat; and it exudes
Such confidence, it is bound to be sucked
With joyous resignation by the slut,
Who wants that grip to ensure she's face fucked -
It is his right; before they start to rut,
He presses her right down, so brambles tear
Her flesh; as she inhales the woodland air.
M
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