Sometimes I wonder if I have made you up,
you seem so perfect and sexually consummate.
You cum when I ask
and do my bidding exactly.
Why is that my sweet, I ponder,
why do you so pander?
It matters not I suppose, because you see, you are my rose.
Your petals I would gladly lick and furl, if only I may touch your pearl.
How is this, my exquisite delight
that I only seem to dream of you at night?
