Aaltarboy Poetry (2)

She's told herself often, that she was an artiste, but no one buys her paintings, and her art is the least. Yet she just won't give up, and persists with the dream, but the rent must be paid, and she hears the kids scream. Took a comely young boy friend, who himself pushed the idea, that he too was an artist, without talent sincere. Got her fat with a child, and like many another, left both quite alone, just like his dad did to mother. Now on dating sites hot, with the radar up high, for a schlub who can bankroll, the fantasy nigh. Hope she finds what she needs, since she's not in the way, to work for a living, each and every day. We've all met such types, who are good for a roll, in the hay now and then, but not for one's soul. Nor for marriage sincere, as commit we all should, unless a prenup gets signed, legally tight and quite good.

You all should know, I do love so, that fragrance from, the spot below. That pubic bone, covered with mohn, as life you love, said nether zone. Oh what delight, when every night, I get to sniff it, nose buried tight. Osh Kosh by gosh, you may well nosh, but 'for I get there, please don't wash. That spot-that spot, all pink inside, soft hair all'round, no fungus rot. Some poor girls yes, may think it fine, to air it out, from time to time. But not my sweetie, she knows the sense, of keeping it hidden, till I enter whence. I know my place, yes well enough, is right on top of, that tasty muff. So fellas think, and know you place, with that sweet twat, right on you face.