Poor is an image I find difficult to afford
Man as the tool to my gain is in constant accord
I can only imagine it – and it’s mine 'till he sighs
Have not met a sugar who didn’t want these thighs
To decorate his hungry lap with something fresh
Tell him I’m a mistake? – I did, I tried but
You can’t reseal the lid on a busted nut
He took a gamble on the liquid swing of my hips
Never fearful of the snug feel of my lips
Knew he could last longer than always
What has he known? On that subject I’ve got it sewn!
Hit it like an olden broken record pumped straight through
Him everywhere – yeah - my ample tool struck true
But my mantle? Starting anew after I take and take
I am not good at what I do – I’m better
Did I not try to tell him I was a mistake?