She strokes with thighs of polished silk
Her lover, to finish him off;
If she had birthed, he'd drink her milk.

Her glistening flesh he's famished for,
Her musky sex is poised to please;
He's raised her up upon her toes,
Making her beg him, finish please!

Her clothes fall down at his soft touch
From him, she's always craving more-
And avarice avails her much.

This hunger feeds the paler flesh,
That's hid by lace, but thinly veiled;
Don't make us choose, when it comes to this:
We'd gladly go on down to hell...