What Happened To My Sex Drive

(sung – in a round pussy willow warble - to the tune of -- Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone) With a flam boy hunt deft jais nais sais quois firm lickey split tongue and two bell yule yar pissant little nappy ruck berry filled up paul ling sacks viz peppy la pew doth not peter out, and weathers clawed rained swipes from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung assisting climbing Jacob's ladder (without pussy footing, orb bing a putz like the president) advancing quick to attain orgasmic rung while heading into a slippery sloping sluice (with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill smooth sailing along a **** re coarse upon phallic shaped pung crossing la brea tar pits (peppered with lai bee ha tricky bridge over the River Kwai) comprising ideal place de la resistance to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate, where two puckered rill lee fleshy ruffling rills tinged pinkish lips overhung a challenging escarpment, where many a brave Tom, Harry or Dick get hung up, particularly while searching for fabled “G” spot, cuz portcullis hamstrung even the most fiercely determined Engleburt Hump per dink necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver as most studs know tubby gelandesprung though booby prize wool worth any slimy setbacks, where sticky gook gets flung from angry cat, who does not in the least find amusing, and if further pricked with rage not averse to hurl dung gar (with) ease at snaky, retractable hardened beastie boy twill clung for dear life and limb (er, or twig and berries), while applying crampons (bivouaced within his maxipad), viz bung gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove hammered out by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled, kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among pheromone laced verboten fruit.