Yet Still, These Alabaster Breasts Invade My Dreams
Yet still, these alabaster breasts invade my dreams.
At least, they look like breasts, though they be choc'late creams.
Or should I call them "truffles", since that's what is writ
upon the box in which all seven barely fit?
White chocolate, the snowy mounds I love are topped
with nipples dark. From munching them, I can't be stopped.
Nor can I cease with tender tongue to plumb within
in search of creamy goodness. Lost am I in sin.
Oh, woe is me, that I partake of such delights
in daytime, since such dreams of longing fill my nights
that I obtain no rest, but toss and turn till dawn,
desiring but to gorge myself ‘til all are gone.
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