You claim you two are friends, and
You wear the same coloured knickers too,
But, you always say just to use my hand,
And she insists in gasps that I strike her through.
But, you tell me, when I ask, in your serious way
That she has had initiation done and ripped,
While yours, had had you through all foreplay,
But, has not with a dick your cunthole whipped.
She wants me on top, and she holds her breath back,
While you sit on my face, grinding me in,
Making me lick through your heaven-given crack,
While she tells me to waste whatever come is to sin.
Between you, then, my study of human friendship goes,
From styles of dress, preferred brands to lip balm of sorts,
To what sounds one makes when you tickle their toes,
And at which point it becomes reverie from short, stern, snorts.