Chopper

I've got a Chopper,
You can have sexual intercourse with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast

You're the kind of wench that thrusts into cum my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should

You're the kind of wench that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I fuck a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I cock—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee

You're the kind of wench that stuffs cum my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite sex sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the bimbo

You're the kind of wench that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I shag custom—built dead men of doo—wop passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's shit into the odd kitchenette and rape landlady creature

Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009