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That which bares her haughty sighs,
her skin of ice and stalagmites
deeply gilt with lace and tights.

What can her lust not afford,
her supple peaks that praise the lord
enslaving all who care to nod?

Late nights she lingers alone,
after the day has withered and worn
with tongues for singers who'd gladly moan.

What do her curves fail to hide,
the carnal fire that burns inside
or that dripping cunt of her darker side?
Written by 13
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DawnbeforeDark gardenlover
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