Down the Paris street

Your eyes are the twin coquettes on the street of Paris,
Your lips are the meadow-picked wild berries,

Your nipples are pebbles from the tropical island,
Your pussy is a seashell, so invitingly silent.

I am lifting the nightgown from your girlish ass,
Sending your panties down with a light caress.

Watch them stuck there, at your knees
Like a sail waiting for the evening breeze.

The night is early but the evening’s late.
Like a steamship, I don’t want to wait.

May balls are working, tight and serious
To help me water that exotic shell of yours

And still to have a drop or more
To chill the pebbles on the island shore.

I taste the berries, just a breathless touch
(I’d rather have to little than have too much),

Then pick up the ladies and, cheerfully discreet,
We walk together down the Paris street.