Was it the Lover or the Beloved...

Was it the lover or the beloved,
who was pimped by
the simple logic of his hand up the lady puppets skirt.
As his fingers parted her lips she spoke:

"The heat passing these moments
burns and turns the furnace
where passion was fashioned,
in steam, by the friction between
two afflicted souls"

With that he took his hand from her skirt and ran it the length of her legs.
"I'ld like to stoke that factory fire with dynamite kegs."

She pretended this offends her,
so he might've lent her
moments romantic leisure.
These he couldn't render.
So her Tuesdays love letter
was marked return to sender.

Girlies

She's batting her eyes,
To my surprise,
And as I feel the tension rise
I surmise:
The gamble is worth the prize.

I didn't plan this tonight.
I might,
Because I know how to do it right.
And those thighs,
The gamble is worth my pride.

Do I have something to feign
For this game?
Though my tongue is feeling lame,
The same,
The gamble is worth my pain.

With her glare still fixed on me
Anxiously
Like I was the object of myown jealousy.
So weep,
The gamble is my disease.