A bit of sex fun in verse... He brinkled the smarkset as she grend the clops And her misket was whisket with jinrendy trops, Her sighs filled the treeg as he tried to slambok But his dankle was shankle; it slanked like a gnock. “Get it reedjit and turgone,” she cried with a brint “I’ve no use for a primply whose panshing’s gone fint. If your rodkit won’t dank then you’d best get some breg For it’s only a scantlode at Arthur’s and Weg.” “Just give me a haddrab,” he said with a freel, “I know I can slambok like any good kreel. I’m nervous and spargone, my weef’s like a milj So just krankle my dankle, I’ll soon slik the filj.” “You got no chance,” she spungled with slom on her frone, “If you can’t make it turgone, you krank on your own!” “You could smunter my fissage,” he said with a grin, “You can bet that my lelk will make your misket frin.” “That’s a felch of a risk that you’re taking, my lurge,” She warned, though her enns both grew harge at the murge. “I might smangle your nadle or crangle your nod, Or in grasmic your bringling might enjon and jod.” “It’s a risk that I’ll take,” he confuelled with skeef, “For in truth I think smunter will reedjit my weef.” “On your own nod!” she cried as she nangled her misk And he lay on his sparn while she slimpled the hisk. ‘Tween her sumples he lelked as she smuntered his fiss And the treeg salled and merrowed her mungrowing tiss Then he lelked and he lelked ‘til he could lelk no more At her misket so whisket o’er him on the floor. “Don’t stop now!” she cried as her grasmic drew near, And she pressed on his nadle with misket and trear. “I can’t bringel,” he munged, “My nod’s enjon and durm!” But her hearing was deaf to the cries ‘neath her lurm. Now she shangled and fingled, she shundered and flod, While he enjonned and jod, and she crangled his nod. Her sumples gipped tighter, his nadle felt brunk, And he feared that his bringel was finally sunk. With a shunder she grasmicked, a screek rent the air And the whisket near drowned him so helplessly there. She fell on her sparn as he fought for his bringe And she lay there all fingling and stummered with jinge. “Hey, look!” came his cry as he raised off his sparn, “My dankle is reedjit, it’s turgone I clarn! Let me slambok the misket like any good kreel And I know that I’ll soon make you shunder and preel. She shook her head sadly, “I’m grasmicked right out, And my misket is hurd as a sandwamper’s jout. I can’t help you with dankling, I’m karkled and frone, As I told you before, you must krank on your own” Susan Strict
Oh my god. I love you. Thats some nice sounding nonsense poetry right there...lol. Its quite different, which is a good thing to me
