Sometimes you make that predictable slip
Of your hand from my arm to my hip,
Turn to my throat and quickly dip
To tug and kiss at the skin with your lip –
Maybe I might move my hand to your zip
Maybe you'll stretch and your eyes will flip
Up to the ceiling to the nectar of God and taste the drip
Steadily trickling down my back in a long blue river, take a sip
And maybe I'll taste so freshly of fruit you'll pucker to spit out a pip,
A seed – and maybe I'll sweat and my hand will stick
Above your heart and it's hot blooded brass clock tick
Through your skin, maybe my pulse will skip
Maybe my nails will dig and clip
Into your shoulder. But maybe the hand's slip will stop at the hip –
And leave you to go home and squeeze your dick
While I wonder the new discovery of a damp print when I sit.