Not a Poem about BetteAnn
I
can't write a poem about BetteAnn and sex.
I couldn't do her justice by putting it in text
And a matter of great importance remains.
We haven't had intercourse, just into games
So in the following, it'll take some doing.
To write not a poem about our screwing.
She has curves in all the right places.
Under her clothes in really dark spaces
She moves so deliberately and forcefully on top .
All I can say is “Please, baby, don't ever stop”.
A scale of 1 to 10 she's gotta be 20.
She gives and gives and I get plenty
She kisses me and bites me on my tits.
And, oh my God, she's gives me such fits.
She grinds her wetness down into me.
Wants to get me inside as I cry out in ecstasy.
Her entire body was made for love.
Sensuous and soft and she fits like a glove.
Abby and Ann, we named her lovely breasts,
As she rides on and on reaching new crests.
On her hands and knees in front of me.
Oh what a heavenly sight her arse to see.
The wonderful flare of waist to hips.
Her graceful back to where it dips
and up and over her beautiful behind
I want to go and throw up the blind.
Down into those hot wet pleasures,
Where I'll find her succulent treasures.
Let's not forget when she's on her back
And it's all I can do not to lose track
Of who I am and what I'm doing
I owe it all to BetteAnn whose choosing
Puts me in these wonderful situations.
And treats me to gobs of wanton sensations
I can't write a poem about BetteAnn and sex.
I couldn't do her justice by putting it in text
bill 2003