Читать книгу Collections, Resurrections, and Treasures of the Soul - Whitney Royale - Страница 7

My butter is melting

Over a piping hot stove.

My butter is melting

Off the tip of your nose.

Sizzling loud so I lower the fire

Head tilted back in utter desire.

My butter is melting

Slowly burning this puddle of liquid.

My butter is melting

Flowing freely as if unrestricted.

Pat it on my peaches, I love the salty taste.

It’s dripping down your chin, don’t let it go to waste.

My butter is melting

Greasy film makes my sticky spoon.

My butter is melting

Slippery wet in a heated room.