Pulling down the last piece of cloth on you,
I see the goddess sending her honey from the heavens,
For all I know it's for me, my blessed one having a taste of it,
My desires writing the magical number eight on the petals,
Your legs badly wanting to convolve around me,
The air having the aroma of our divine lust.
Let my fingers play the game of pleasing you,
And promise me. When I do, you moan my name.
