Her fingers brush her hair in front of your disclosure,
Immeasurably not to cause you any misery,
Lowering inhibitions to bring you flavor,
Not restrained attempts to bring you skin liquor,
A snail's head bobs up as its with less terror
and a tail-gate of passion ends flirtatiously.

A water's tap pours out or less with pressure
And no doubt a measure is the treasure.
A joker is the one who clings to leather,
A jacket of the one captivates to fever.
The hunger wild to salt & the sugar
The player's set himself up to as the hustler

If truth or dare never answered in postcards
her sincere flair wouldn't be wrapped in scarves,
If commodiously of two parties sharing,
into the night, steaks wouldn't be raring
to be a taste of other blissful strangers.

tail-gates...