O, thou dearest object of desire,
Perfection’s form to worship from afar,
Dare I approach thine incandescent fire,
Or kneel before thee, brightly shining star?
As I behold thee tenderly unfold
Thy secret place of pleasures’s sweet repose,
I would that my poor tongue might be so bold,
As there to deeply seek, and lust expose.
Deep probing pleasure not to be delay’d,
With virile simulacra thrusting true,
My jealous soul doth clamor thus to trade,
Poor vinyl love for all I’d wish to do.
Dear fantasy, thou art perfection’s gift,
Whose beauty doth my heated soul uplift.
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