The motorcycle was humming her purr between my thighs
clenched tightly round the hot gas tank bughouse bound
for my old lady's French oohs aahs coos and blue eyes
where the shadow poet's fine frenzy was sure to be found
despite her steady diet of morning whiskey & humble pies.
Pulling into her driveway sidekick down boots on the street
walking to the door hand on the knob and what’s this i hear
but a hurly burly voice call out your pussy tastes oh so sweet
then Stevie’s Maybe your baby done made some other plans
pounds throbs pings and pulses in my fight-or-flight middle ear
so fight i choose turning the key and just barely cracking the door
to catch a peak at her possessed tremors in lamp light gloaming
where this porno production tragicomedy of the Madonna/Whore
finished with my baby's primal scream/cry, Oh my god I'm coming!