There is a glorious story to tell, of a pretty little lady prepared to parade her fine self to all and sundry – the plunder never really an option as such
Coquettish, entirely delicious, these beautiful wits just will not split themselves in two
An affable ego – driven rather precisely, delicately, on through both her and you
The soliloquy slur never so perfectly astute in all of its bespoke life, soaked in equally permitted bliss
When we gleefully tee her on up to gladly strip you and your devoted few of all your rather sizeable inadequacies
She’s your everything and, aside which, dipped in all kinds of blindingly rapturous acid – your personalised antacid to hold and to get to forever worship
Perched to a rather perilous point if you fail to anoint

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