Cob webs for her hair
A musket at her feet
Does she dare
Beat the meat
..
How ever can she really
She might get caught
And lacking a willie
She opted for pot
..
Dusting off her thin hands
Then settling herself in
A fine bed of sands
She felt sharp as a pin
..
And here like a frail flower
Thoughts are lofty and afloat
She passes each hour
In her pretty minded boat
..
Her mind is stricken with poetry ills
And the medication has worn off
Her poetry is sick, so sick it kills
And she again wants to whack off
..
a compliment is a bitter pil
and she licks her poetry wounds
but when her fingers caress the keys
her inner slut just swoons

Man, you need to go to one of those roman baths. Go frolick around in there or whatever it is that you do.