You'd buy her a fine bunch of roses.
You'd present them: a sweet valentine.
But, mark-well, before the door closes,
the way she just tends to decline
your kisses and currying favor,
since she will soon be occupied.
No. I don't think you can stay to savor.
In fact, your request is denied.
When, looking hangdog, you've long gone
To moon, feeling lovelorn and lost,
I'll be stripping your sweetheart. She's one
who is keen to be used. It's the cost
Of having a lover whose flowers
Are soon to be strewn on the bed.
I'll admire your bunches for hours,
While your love is giving me head.
She adores having roses cascaded
all over her fine, naked breasts.
To hell with the thorns: once dusk's shaded
the grazes that add interest
to the softer sensations of petals
lying crushed on the bed. Come the dawn,
after a night when her metal's
Been tested and graded.
of enjoyment, endearment and pleasure
is not quite to everyone's taste.
If you send her such flowers, I'll wager
they will certainly not go to waste:
I'll use them to offset her skin tones;
I'll employ them to mark her as mine;
I'll ensure I record all her soft moans
in response to your sweet valentine.
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