Canine wife; lover boy,
he move on face a lippin’-it taste, give tail-waggin’ joy.
It ain’t right to get delight
and fan the fire. . .sweet-cur desire. . .spritz-tire blight.

On plate’s their beef dinner—they don’t fress apart.
A caress leads to romance;
off plate his tongue’s wending to ingestion part.

Post-feed, the task:
he’s a pooch osculator. . . .

Open throat, tongue placed in nice Fido, waggin’ tail.
The glottis in her mouth he won’t forego, tongue-assail.

Face on face, a clammy taste
in her voice box, like chum and lox,
anchovy paste.

A license he’s got, inured to the scolds
who say: “Shouldn’t be in a dog’s oral folds
where you might give the mutt one of your colds!
At least, a mask!”

He’s a pooch osculator. . . .

Goes from throat. . .makes it with Fido; shaggin’ tale
has moved from north to south; he won’t forego pumpin’ tail.

What’s next? Don’t ask!

He’s a pooch copulator. . . .