A hogshead of brimming swill,
Cask of ale brewing still,
Within bowels of oaken firkin.
Pewter of my tarnished chalice,
In eeriness I drink myself to sleep,
Of dreams I lay down to lust,
The succubus of Dallionshorn.
In moments of blink, I peek,
Her breasts of teardrops I seek.
Quest of eyes, my sighs cry,
Precum of the dew, I have for she.
In creaks of my chilling bones,
Marrow of my spine frozen,
Risen of the throbbing member,
Night of winter's December.
Serpent's tongue, cast away bung,
Like a spirit swirling my manhood,
The stout of my evening spew,
Within the bowels of oaken firkin.
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