Track suit boasted
shades
of
grey
but it was the
hair
pulled sharply back
gold-tipped highlights sending
a million tiny shocks to
my Tip
O Goldie
Would that it could be
I
supping greedily at your
Y
My efforts
spurred on
by the sductive
aria
of your
sighs
- first soft as
fur
then building to a crescendo in
G -
As from wild pleasure you
thrash
and the table
smashes
and
without missing a
beat
you reach down
for the
Wood
to satiate
your still quivering
lips
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