She's yakking, phone-sex lover girl.
Her client's playing with his part,
Paying high rate to dick-dilate.
She loves merely with language:
Words like "tight" and "juicy site," are her reply;
Lexicon helps him not fall.

"Treat you right, loverboy,"
She coos with a face as complacent as a tame, coddled koi.
"Clitty likes your bigness spike;
I get higher, sweetheart, desire your mighty pike
In place! I'm virgin, sir; your severing dart
Has rent skin scrim; I'm cleft by lance
You place where your spending's prepared to embark."

That is her task:
She's a shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator.

Prose she'll pose in a let's-shag argot to get males
Randy and coarse; her mouth moves keened lingo; love she wails.

"Place on face my clam-like space
Then shag my box and dunk your rocks;
I'll clean your mace."

The licentious lug's instrument's on hold;
It pelts walls from manly squeeze; then like a bull polled,
His horn recedes, dangles; but her part was poled. . . .

Phone phantasm.
She's a shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator.

Prose she'll pose in a wet-chick argot to set male
Handles to north; Bell South moves keened argot of love for sale.

Shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator,
Shmooze copulator.