They say your voice is like satin, but it sounds more like satan. When you whisper vowels, mortals start aching, baby-making, stepping out after the wedding. My mans stopped bringing home the bacon, said he's in your bed waiting... and he's a reverend.
Deception.
I suppose that's not your fault huh? They ran after you and never caught up, but somehow they always get caught up. When men act like children income piles up, so where do you put all the money they've coughed up? Is that why your bra's so stuffed?
Since you're sick of these infants… hired some help, started business. I'm guessing you're not seeking repentance. When you're providing baby powder to cover an illness, those red bottoms come with a vengeance, and body counts lose their significance.
Still, I wish you the best while the ink dries on your treasure chest. You're not even hiding the authority figures under your sundress temptress, so who am I to lay you to rest when you've laid with the best?
I'd just be making a mess to suggest you dread losing control more than a stranger kissing your mouth, so it's still part of the game if you go down south. This isn't a love seat; it's clearly an intercourse couch, so I won't pretend what this is all about. Let me penetrate your mind until you figure it out.
Just say the word, and I'll pull out.
Dip it low take it up slow, never have you ever heard a man say no, but when has their blessing been a miracle? If your soul were taken from behind, would you climax in the physical? Does predisposed and overexposed equal disposable?
I don't think so.