Food For Thought

The table cloth is freshly pressed and draped,
So nicely on the table; there it hangs
To quite twelve inches - gosh, I might have gaped
Had he been just as gifted; but, his plans
Were still assured, given the ample space
For me to nestle in the dark and tend
To the arousal that he had the grace
To blame me for - the scoundrel; yes, I lend
A hidden ambience and my heart skips -
I suck him next to ladies' knees; he'll ache
For more and reaches to extract my tits
From my little black dress - he can create
A bared, bosomy landing place: I'll lick
and squeeze him, 'til his prick's ready to spit.