Fires of Feb

A sniff, then stoned, it's the start of it all.
You'll expect more than a bump, you'll begin to soar.
See streaks of colors, blinding ones like the sun.
It is night, and you like the excitement and fun
of naked bodies getting in to the groove
of house and trance as your little world move.
A spin, a blur, it is nothing at all
compared to the heady feeling of free fall.
It's you flying from the edge of the cliff,
and smoothly gliding, not minding the stiff
sensation that rams inside your innocent hole.
You just groan in pleasure, begging for more.
And the seweges scream of the fluids of Feb.
It's the start of the strain, getting caught in the web
of lust and base desires of your heart.
The beat, the rhythm, the bone in your flesh
you feel him starting to slingshot some fresh
seeds of his manly essence. A flash. A silvery glow.
A hit, a bang, the fang of his bow.
The smug in the face, he's a keeper and a find,
the edge of the bed, the end of the line.
His spear, a spike, he nails you several times.
A drip, a drop, the start of an epic climb.
A sniff, then stoned, it's the start of it all.
You get more than a bump, you'll end up sore.
And the city burns in the fires of Feb.
It's the start of getting caught in the web.