Generally, as a man of descretion,
I don’t say things I ought not mention
Like, when she leaves her laundry on the floor,
Collapsed stockings, bunched band underwear,
And a sling like to slay two Goliaths
But her bikini top upon the beach
Left out upon the shell worn sand,
And seeing no one but we each,
Leads me prurient to think
Soft pink apples are in hand
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