On cotton covered throne she curls,
A podium of swift-shed morals,
A body and soul of his to mold,
A willing slave, bought and sold,
He who kneels upon her pedestal,
to suckle deeply of her vestibule,
Of inner honey lining thick,
Luscious lips for him to lick,
From high grace has she crumbled now,
A plaintive slut, his Jezebel
And from below his rod is offered
Seeking greedily her coffers
As he stiffens, thus he gives
That sweet nectar for which she lives
Forever more, marked is she
For eternity of his and for he
