Rounds

Round one, shall we say the “meet and greet’?
With frustration seeping, hungry eyes as rules are laid
A sly grin on the crooked lips of men picking their choice cuts
Your hungry eyes bleed sensual neon ribbons in my direction

Round two, shall we say the “lascivious feast”?
Grab a hand and skip the names; to the corner, drop the clothes
Your ravenous hands take hold on my thighs with following kisses
Playing with that sly grin holding me so far down

Round three, shall we say the “take over”?
We’re hungry and sordid, but we burn so clean in neon
In low sounds of pleasure from the mouths of many and two
Moaning “baby” as I bite your shoulder, mumbling of rules

Round four, shall we say the “deliverance of time”?
My mind spins as stomach tightens, hands tremble, tight chest
Falling on your chest at the height of our filthy beauty
You kiss my crying mouth with pleads of round five