Yes, it is true what they say:
I'm pry-thigh hoistin' pet hard each day.
Ride the range in a bareback way;
Woman scratches back hair cat-like. . .feels great!

Then I ask her if she will get down
So we can do it à la hound
Till we ululate an Allah sound.
Swiving-pleased yeoman, that's me!

I'm boinkin' Mandy Brown. . . .

You know, that chick can make me lance a lot,
And to her Guinevere I am playing Lancelot.
In the parlance of pullin' pals, her pants are hot,
And me too, I'm steaming.

Sometimes she calls my johnson "mace,"
A medieval image that seems right in place.
As she is affixed to my face,
I murmur, "Merlin". . .not merkin-furred, her.

This boy's in Mandy Brown. . . .

Pry my pike in that nested hill,
Down-festooned poon-fest mound fill.
It's blood-engorged; in pink, the spill.
Stiff-nixed boy recedes; tight tube now a vacuum.

That juiced box has no horned sir. . .grasping for vacated schlong.
Light bites on gent-thing dormant--it grows to long;
It grows real long; it's upper sprung.
Now that it's buoyed, a spear again.

She buoys gimped manhood, down. . .