210 : A Poem.

Finger swirls like a violin,
Cold and easy,
the touch on the skin.

Follow the road made by nature past,
The little trail the snail had pass,
Deeper down that forest path,
To be blocked by a rubber's wrath.

With a little force, a full hand of five,

Can't go over so you'll just have to dive,

The warm place scared and "pure",

You just can't help but to take a tour.

Rustling, and searching,

The deeper you go,

To find the treasure,

No no, not gold,

But something more,

Alive with a warmth,

With blood rushing through,

A familiar shape forms.

With a throbbing one of your own,

You grabbed the treasure like you're in the zone,

And all the responds is a soft, long,

Moan..

LeoNut..

DAMN I'M HORNY!
RAWR!~