She’s a tease.
The femme fatale disease.
Gaming with sultry eyes surprise.
Rose lips of fast lies.
Moaning ecstasy in sweet cries.
Throbbing sex lullabies.
She’s a tease to best please.
No sad begging of cheap release.
Call her out, she’ll flagrantly deny.
No longer look you in the eye.
© Natasha Sinclair