What a French! It really pleases—
your speech organ inside there.
Although that long tongue may ferry
germs, I really do not care.

Past my teeth slides in that organ,
but with no uvula snare.
It makes me feel very merry—
cached inside my lingual lair.

I can’t smile when it is raging
in the portal for breathed air.
I enjoy the osculation,
a feeling beyond compare.

So, come and give me a faceful;
as I put it: “Put ’er there!”
Pleasing is that lingual teasing,
the opposite of despair.

My cheeks need an inside bathing—
mucus-free surfaces bare,
and there is no trace of a loog’—
such is bucally unfair.

When I get a French it makes me
become sensation-aware,
and that sensation will quake me
to the bliss clutched tongues can share.