it can really mess with a *******'s
head,
     when she takes, authentic, pleasure
from her work,
  because it's a "work" debacle...
god it hurts a *******,
      when she realises that she's
enjoying her "work"...
             nothing more belittling
     that the ******* dearmed -
            with a kiss,
                and an unfaked ******...
see if you can find a copernican
     perception inversion in a brothel...
because when **** hits the fan,
       you know there's no fan-boy bound
to the vicinity for miles around...
     as ever, i agree with freud on
the matter, and i'll argue the existence
of the madonna-***** complex,
just as i might have a hard-on
ready and waiting,
               when the woman isn't
toying with a *******
                   snow white syndrome...
an expression of affection,
                  worthwhile the hour...
beyond that?
                       puppy tears,
               and manga grief eyes of
the dilated pupil...
                 works most of the time,
unless, of course,
you find yourself standing under a street
lamp, admiring the gentle
fall of snow...
          god, most ****,
               in der nacht,
                   wenn es schneien...
but you really can't stomach the paradox
of a ******* that doesn't fake
an ******...
                     you peer into:
an authentic pain;
                and she will tell you...
because when she can't act,
      she has suddenly ingested
a guilty, pleasure...
                elevate the expression
via ouch...
                        then start speaking
bulgarian...
                     pride & worship on my behalf,
attempting to tender her further
by kissing her hand;
for each and every knuckle,
and the space in-between...
     show me hamlet's skull
         romance, or rather:
    st. augustine's soliloquism -
i'll spreschen the same scheisse
with a *******'s hand...
       for as i already testified:
  there's nothing more ******,
                 than a woman's hand;
my, my pretty geisha mimic.