About five three
Fake tits
Italian skin, that olive twinge
Gears up for the scene
Ancient chamber
Open feel, torches illuminate
The phallic players enter
Sporting togas
Nothing beneath
As these things go
Always ready
One, called Genius
Countenance chiseled
Body solid, self-assured
Moves knowingly, deliberately
Disrobes with grace and style
The other, called Insanity
Empty eyes, volatile
No poise, but an allure
Enters with a smirk
To bring the kink
They move on her
The train commences
She wails on deaf ears
They grunt and maneuver
The former, with fluid force
Keeps her head busy
With the latter at the back door
Knocking incessantly
They vie for attention
But share it, nonetheless
A dance, counter-balance
But she’s an unbalanced scale
Hips cocked and eager face,
Who will mark her first?
She awaits the claim
As the Goddess Serenity
Blushes behind the drape,
That voyeuristic wench
With holes intact.