I think of little old ladies aged like wine
Sitting sipping, tinkling their teaspoons
In time with your thrusting and thinking
Of times long gone while they pine

I think of you fucking above unaware
Of the boisterous boinking below
Oh, the delicious irony of that thought
Is surely lost on you, altogether bare

I think of rubber coasters, rugs on the floor
That could end the dramatic drum beat
Of lovers lasciviously laboring
Unaware of their inquisitive audience next door

I think of a huge cock and a gaping hole
Of sticky lubricant bottles thrown on the floor
Of damp musty towels soaked with fluids
Tossed aside in the thrust of reaching your goal

I think of you while I masturbate unending
Intently keeping time to the bumping beat
Of the squeaky reverberations ever pumping
From that rusty old bed on which you’re fucking

© 2007 MH (posted with permission)