She taste like a honey bunn,

He’s Yoga Bear the kid.
Tryna downward dog
Her picnic ass-kit.
She bee the queen of this hive.
He bee some worker on a gig,
But he’s gonne swing his shift
To the eve of her ribs.
“Yes, yes”, that’s what say to him,
While she sing that song like a top fave hymn.
He gave a slight grin, and a bite on her chin,
So she hiked up her hind legs so he could get in.
He jumped in like swim,
Backstroking with his limbs.
It phelped good as gold,
He was her olympian.
He turned on his thrust,
Till she thought he might bust,
Just a squirrel on a nut;
But little did she know his goal was a rush.
He was not little, she felt him in her bust,
She felt his cusp.
Her cup runneth over
Till she thought she might bust.
Then aloud she cussed,
Like the back of the bus.
…She couldn’t fake it
The masquerade was over, time for her to break in.
Position mission-impossible,
She could take it, elated.
Then rode his stick-shift like a road-trip, Vegas.
Lap after lap, she poled-position, again.
Screaming hallelujah, all that’s missing was an amen.
His john was a legend, so she said another again.

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