Contributor: Paul Tristram
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The Lusters, they have their fingers
Upon the pulse of what is going on.
They are always scanning the horizon
For the next playmate to come along.
They lick their lips at the shadows
Preen the mind with erotic thought.
There’s a burning desire within them
To go seek out but also to be sought.
The itch cannot be really scratched
No, it can only be temporarily calmed.
By some sticky, gargling of the senses
That would make most people alarmed.
They are farmers of the opposite sex
They are gatherers of a human fruit.
Wanton hunters and hustlers of flesh
They dig and claw to reach the root.
Disease is just an occupation hazard
Rejection is a striking hammer blow.
Look in the nymphomaniac dictionary
You will not find a word meaning ‘No.’
For another climax of their senses
They’ll head off back down into town.
Hoping...
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Author:
Paul Tristram
