Her Tune is a Love Song Ripped on Writ Panties / by Reckon

Hey, Her you yen for, her in the by and by and in your words covet after her curveswith a couple of weeks worth of mystical ankles. Los potential. Add there feet and feelers, a good book, matching moonlight and her hanging on a breath at the stop sign. For my dirty her yen stomata-like radio nourishment (my elixir); genuflect and intently ache at the aphrodisiac blisters. Her tune is a love song in exquisite flux transistor on tattered scanty scrawled:  come on(e), come all.