Подарок русско-говорящим читателям прозы.ру от моей подруги.
Sonnet XXIX
How succulent it feels anticipating
Your throbbing thrust a pink abyss
I open wide my knees, not hesitating
To penetrate my cavernous wet bliss.
My finger I imagine is your wet tongue
Just tasting salty flesh while drinking me,
No time to flatter - wooing songs go unsung,
No temperance when one wants impatiently
To feel you move within a pink abyss,
Or plunge into a mouth, or sacred spot,
Oh, forgive me, my words have gone amiss,
Your poetry has planted sinful thought.
If you make love way you write a poem,
I'd gladly let you call my cunt your home.