6-16-13
Her midriff, sweet enough to eat off of,
What to concentrate on, rests slightly above;
From her belly, the best place to sip,
To drink wine, good enough to tip;
Her rump, her rear, the back of her front,
Something to leer at, something to hunt;
Nothing dressed upon her, is rotten to the core,
Perfect is she, she is everything to live for;
Her eyes, with their allure, nothing can match,
Her whole frame, she is the only thing to catch.
Copyright © Shan Omeara | Year Posted 2015
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