My tongue it twists, it curls, it bends
it licks my lips, my throat defends.
It also tastes, a noble job,
though biting it will make him throb.
Yet even after errant nibbles
he never cries and never quibbles.
He heals and mends himself quite quick,
with time to give your neck a lick.
For your supple lips he waits,
licks my lips and salivates.
He has no scars, no dents or cuts.
He has no fear but has no guts.
Although he tastes and works with food
His favorite things are never chewed.
He licks my lips, but also yours.
He glides and flits along your pores.
Some say tasting’s all he’s for
Though we both know there’s so much more.
When I’m thirsty, he says so
and when I’m full, he lets me know,
but when I feel you hold me near
he speaks then too, and just as clear.
He begs to play and taste his friend.
He wants to jump, explore, extend.
He knows your tongue, his tango mate.
He knows the dance that they create.
It’s silent, sweet, and improvised,
and always leave our hearts surprised
For our tongues, taste is their world,
but when we find them close and curled,
then the tasting time is done.
Then the magic has begun.
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