Sometimes I wonder if I have made you up,

you seem so perfect and sexually consummate.

You cum when I ask

and do my bidding exactly.

Why is that my sweet, I ponder,

why do you so pander?

It matters not I suppose, because you see, you are my rose.

Your petals I would gladly lick and furl, if only I may touch your pearl.

How is this, my exquisite delight

that I only seem to dream of you at night?