"The Oyster and The Pearl"
Oh! Pearl inside the Oyster
Oh! Treasure buried deep
You need a rude awakening
To arouse you from your sleep
The probing of a finger
The gentle touch of skin
The shudder of excitement
As emotions drag you in
And glistened satisfaction seeps
And trickles from your cock
The finger milking gently
As your body starts to rock
And gasps of utter passion
Throw your actions out the door
And you're begging for a fucking
Now you know what fucking's for
And a throbbing rod of heaven
Knocks upon your portal gate
And you know your prostate's waiting
To engage it's happy fate
As inch by inch the rigid knob
Seeks out your spongy dome
And with a thrust of urgency
The fucker's swiftly home
And nuzzling by the cushion
Of ecstatic promised bliss
The prick hell bent on thrusting
Offers up it's juicy kiss
And hearts are pounding wildly
As the cock repeats it's ride
And your prostate leaps delirious
Each time it's deep inside
You cannot stop the motion
But you want it all the more
Your innards lit with fire and lust
And throbbing to the core
Your arsehole burns with fever
As the fucker drives you wild
You're whimpering and sobbing
Like a stupid little child
But the cock continues pounding
Till you think you'll pass away
And at last you've found a reason
Why the prostate has to stay
Your hole is but a stairway
To a precious font of dreams
And you want the cock to bathe it
In a coat of milky creams
You're lost within the hunger
And you feel a sudden rush
Your arse is in orgasm
And the feelings fucking lush
The cock now jumps excitedly
The sperm is quick to spritz
You both encounter heaven
In a blissful cum soaked blitz
Your prostate drenched and throbbing
Leaves you sobbing like a girl
Oh! That treasure deep and hidden
The Oyster and The Pearl.
By Marcus c 2008
All men eventually age
which in itself creates some rage,
they notice that some parts get squeaky
(in some the bladder tube gets leaky) .
It's bad enough if you ask me
that we wake up and have to pee.
It is the gland that wraps around
and weighs when swollen half a pound,
they say the spout of human bowsers
drips its last dropp into the trousers. Herbert Nehrlich
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