Thighs come undone from my prying,
Pie do I see—bush galore.
Don’t you know, it’s the bend of a girl
That opens up love’s mammy door.

Bush in a bird gets me swinging,
Bushing, my part set for love,
Don’t you know, it’s the bend of a girl—
That bend allows a loving shove.

My stake’s up from its mooring, and no wonder:
That tressèd thing is shaved of its fuzz.
I’m not undermanned with my knobbed plunger gland;
It’s rife with life, and that’s because. . . .

Plying my part, but not beating,
Writhing in licentious grind.
Don’t you know, it’s the bend of a girl—
I’m met with four*-in furry pie.

Plying my part, but not beating,
Writhing in time-honored grind.
Don’t you know, it’s an end in French world—
I metaphorically die.


*oven