On Taste Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He'd lick your fingers, one by one
caress in turn each eager bun,
and within seconds he would slide
to find his welcome deep inside.
There, like a boy, he'd romp and play
and, due to ambience would stay.
Until deflation bids good-bye
and he withdraws without a sigh.
Behind is left a small deposit
a skeleton within her closet.
It mixes with her geyser's fluids
and all his fishes now get to it
they travel to the Northern section,
meanwhile he feels a new erection.
She pulls, with nails so sharp they hurt
and soon they energise and spurt,
a smile takes over her red lips
while there is movement in their hips
and taste is all, you don't or do
from Southern lands the swallow flew.