- Erotic Poetry
- On a parol
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Moving towards your smell, not meeting you is like finding hell
Craving for your touch, wanting your lips so much
That softness of your thighs, still picturing your size
Winter is pouring in the bowl, still remember your Mole, burning like a Charcoal, lying on a Bedroll like a convict on a Parol
baby I am dying in this pinhole
holding my pistole
Last wish is, wanna see your peephole
Baby here come they, the Patrol
I will break another night, in the quite,
Baby that day, wear a skirt of low height
Blouse skintight. Untill then baby Goodnight.
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