#4265 - My dear wolfish hulk, Your mind is sick well with love For how much do you hump As I do cause you pain. How unbearable Her royal touch, on my most sensitive area Not pleasing, toying, and swimming Both my short staff, and my insides with it. Perhaps she'll see me here In the cherry grove stunned by her Yet do I wish for such a glance? For if she doth think me a fool Then by what hopes do I live on? Against the king is this treasonous thought Oh my I have been seen, Shall I speak? Call out of my eyes sin and Beg of her forgiveness? What is this? She is not mad, but glad Slowly the oceans of flame, her eyes Search me with passion, As her gown rolls off her shoulders Such a scandalous image of skin My instincts are barely manageable Her elaborate lace tight to her skin covers her And so slightly, White clothes in blessed sin Am I mad, she does beckon me to her chamber.
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