He's rattling off again about the final touchdown;
You think about her jeans. . .
The way she fits in them:
Tight, yet ready to be ripped off.
You think about her hair. . .
How it falls in a cascade of curls--
In the morning it smells like basil and cotton,
And at midnight,
It reeks of whiskey and desperation.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
He's rattling off again about the final touchdown;
You think about her jeans. . .
The way she fits in them:
Tight, yet ready to be ripped off.
You think about her hair. . .
How it falls in a cascade of curls--
In the morning it smells like basil and cotton,
And at midnight,
It reeks of whiskey and desperation.
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