Hors d’Oeuvre

He was home for a meal
All he got was a feel
He was greeted with a fart
She’d turned into a tart

And as far as I know
Upstairs they did go
She tied him to the bed
And then sat on his head

Her holes were always wet
Like a drooling canine pet
Then her clutching snatch
Had found a tool to match

She had an itching crack
Was always flat on her back
Waiting for the willie
Laughing herself silly

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