Clitoris, Clitoris,
queen of my vulva,
crowning jewel of my most intimate treasure,
you, butter bean, are uncontested,
absolute ruler of your universe,
head dominatrix of the dungeon.
Hooded and cloaked,
you wait impatiently,
peeking out occasionally,
tasting the air.
Thirstily you await the next adventurer
eager to explore
your secret underground cave.
This is your hidden base
and you the epicenter
of every roaring earthquake,
its rolling thunder it travels
to the furthest outposts of my body,
to breast and nipple, neck and toe.
You made your residence
far below the twin peaks
under the Venus hill,
in the center of my anatomy.
With your helm and labial coat,
you stand glistening in the early morning sun.
Two legs straddle your vaginal steed,
excited you await the next charge,
of your lover's pointy lance.
You, clit, little slit bit,
beauty spot, cherry pit,
you my passion bean,
show up in all shapes from harlot to queen.
At day my little ploughman tall
at night, the usher of my hall.
You are a pink button...
a tender love button,
a happy and expressive pleasure button.
You little nubbin are my door bell,
the joy buzzer announcing the next spell.
Mama's little spare tongue shame tongue
loves to be the budgie's tongue!
Clint Toris, the horny goat,
was born as baby in the female boat.
Clitty's daddy was no Dracula,
Clitty was fathered by the bald man in the female navicula.
From puerility the stamina of the boy in the boat was terrific,
but as the man in the boat he is virile and most prolific.
The cockyolly bird dance around the hot spot,
a butterfly dancing dancing on the dot,
grinning as little feet caress the sensitive spot.
And then suddenly out loud sounds the pleasure crow,
my female cock, stood erect to let all know,
you hit my sweet spot with that last soft blow -
my sensible part relishes this so!
She's a succulent cherry, maybe a bit risky,
a passion fruit, guaranteed to get you frisky.
This goal keeper is a pleasure seeker,
a peeping sentinel, and a late sleeper!
The clown's hat is a little tickler,
but you can be sure she's the trigger.
This here tastebud is not any bud,
this nub is a love bud rosebud.
My praline is a sugared almond,
glistening, she is a sugared diamond.
My prawn of pleasure
dares you to taste her clitoric treasure.
Clitoris,
strange, hooded mystic,
why are you here,
what made you put up your command post,
your headquarters,
right amidst this girl's legs?
Who are you, what is your purpose,
your reason for coming?
Do you really have this one function only,
this singular goal?
Is your only concern sending forth
your army of orgasms,
the rhythmic contractions,
wave upon wave upon wave,
crashing on the beach of my skin
shaking my very foundation?
What care is it of yours,
the sake of the survival of my species,
that you would urge and encourage,
hint, poke, and seduce?
Is it your scheme to force me to copulate,
more girls for your harem?
You give no answers,
but you keep pressing, urging, demanding.
You crave your pound of flesh,
be it four, seven or ten inches,
always better if it's fresh.
Clitoris, my dearest clit,
whoever and whatever you are, I adore you utterly.
Yesterday peaceful and quiet,
today bouncing of the walls,
you are one of the great spices of life.
