The Grapes of Love...

They come of their own volition
When a lady fancies a sip
Gently pressed into fruition
Between her upper and lower lip.

She knows it's the peak of gustation;
The negus of Generation Sex;
That beverage of nymph recreation
All Succubi drain with a hex.

So why would I ever not think
That there's juju in each drop of jizz
To fill the flute from which she will drink
Hot magic that's no longer his...

Proofed by her savor, and subsequent grin,
And surplus clabbered all over her chin!