She trembles against him. Her body shakes. His adoration upon her, She gladly takes. All the emotion he gives her, All the love that he makes, Each autumn this visit, For both of their sakes. She's there in the at the gatesthe red in the sky is ours
of the moon. He spends his wet heat, A relentless tide, Of life's essence and power And elation, inside His beloved mystery, His unearthly guide, The incorporeal spirit, Of his dead, blushing bride. She's there in the preteen boy sex pic
of the moon. He stays there a moment Against the cold stone, Where each autumn he mourns her, Bereft and alone. He shrugs off his tears And suppresses a moan. 'Twas good she died young Ne'er to be an old crone. She's there in the american little lolitas
of the moon. He stands and he turns, Reluctant to go, Sad to leave her alone, To face winter's snow. He bends down on one knee, 'Tis All Saint's, you know? To place a wreath of remembrance, His love, the world show. She's there in the arabic gay porn
of the moon. The children all call him Halloween Bill. He exits the graveyard After drinking his fill Of port wine and whiskey, A drunkard's cheap swill,On the morning of All Saint's. He won't come here again, until, She's there in the preteens
of the moon.