Infernal Heat
Infernal heat
To suffer yes infernal heat,
To burn the fork out of your trouser seat,
submerged in loves tales of deceit,
when tender-loin arouses,
to burn with fires taste of lust,
to strap it down to stop its thrust,
to feel like it might surely bust,
unless the flame she douses,
to pander to this manly urge,
to feel the blood the rising, surge,
could be my fetal fatal final dirge,
from coming, passion flowers…
Don Johnson
Copyright © Don Johnson | Year Posted 2013
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