A Clitoris Sonnet

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Why, if it isn't a ripe little lychee
gargoyle perched atop the temple door!
At the hinge of parted thighs and sighs, pleas
and pouncing, barnyard musks and boudoir

silks.  There, crouched and pouting in warpaint blush
o'er origami flesh. A pilot light
prepared to fire at my approach, such
as any plucky beast so cornered might.

Now then, let's just peel this hijab back.
We're all naked here my succulent friend.
And once I've lathered you in tom-cat baths,
brought new lips for you to nestle in, and

wiled you to me, combined we'll confront
these temple doors as partners in the hunt!

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