She should probably root the bloke, shouldn’t she,
Could, if she wanted to, couldn’t she?
Say he’s her first,
(Just a white lie, at worst).
God! She’d make the poor bastard’s day, wouldn’t she!
Tag: root
Making the best of it
Well, she thought, as she lay there, legs spread,
If I’d known where it all might have led…
That’ll teach me to flirt!
Still, a root wouldn’t hurt,
In fact, might be quite nice, when all’s said.
Ripe
Though not quite yet of age, young and prime,
To not root her would seem a damn crime!
Some weeks more, months at worst…
Yet… to be the girl’s first!
It’s, of course, just a matter of time.
A lack of propriety
Mister Beasel, the sweatshop proprietor
Cast a long, lecherous eye at her;
Pretty, deaf-mute,
She’d be lovely to root,
Like the other poor girls, only quieter!
The language of love
She was deaf-mute, poor slut, but could mime…
Lusty hip-thrusts, lewd gestures… sublime!
Splendid titties as well,
Sparkling eyes! Truth to tell,
To not root her had seemed a damn crime!
Animal magnetism
Of finesse he was simply devoid.
She perhaps should have been more annoyed.
Just wham! Bam! The big brute!
A rough, animal root,
She’d surprisingly, though, quite enjoyed!
Marital bliss
Being married, mate, sex is on tap,
His mate said. Lunchtime root, then a nap!
Or, you’re havin’ a drink,
And she’s there, at the sink,
Just say “Oi! Suck my cock, love!” SNAP! SNAP!
Hot stuff
“Look'” she said. “I do like you a lot,
And I’d root you, more likely than not,
Anytime! Anyhow!
Only not just right now.
I’m so shagged, and it’s too bloody hot!”
Her reputation precedes her
She’s a slut, well, according to fable,
Can drink a man under the table!
What’s more, by repute,
She’s a fabulous root,
So he’s hoping she’ll be true to label!
Job satisfaction
“I love fucking!” she said, with a smirk.
“Kinda job a gal don’t wanna shirk!
Gettin’ paid just to root,
And free whisky to boot!
Shit, it ain’t what I’d really call work!”