The Professor's A Cross Tick Begging to Get into A Sweet Crotch She has a name, where writers come

from: honor. Unzip my verse, and you will read its tenor Zipping like lightning through selvedge and center. Ask anyone who's felt her aura: bonheur. No less than sylphid is her walk, on air, Nor less than woodwind music her soprano. Every sense of mine tunes in upon her, Pleading to drown, as I myself would, in her, Entranced, and rocked, and stoned, just to begin her. Nobody knows the secrets I will tell her, Let every witness to this spell here note. And should you guess how I'd love to address her, Nailed to the world in this public love letter, Deliver it, and me, to her, just as I wrote.

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