Blowing in the morning; coitus at nighttime,
Blowing from a poon glide after woo with Steve,
Saving up the harnessed gusts that then are seeping—
Sweet trill from deep boy’s in—windy are the queeves.

Windy are the queeves, windy are the queeves,
Sweet trill from deep boy’s in—windy are the queeves.
Sibilant the queeves, sibilant the queeves,
Shhweet trill from deep boy’s in—windy are the queeves.

Blowing after fun time, blowing from the hollow;
Hearings can be loud or come as a soft breeze.
Try to hold the harnessed Ms. mistrals, that’s feckless—
Seep trills from deep boy’s in—windy are the queeves.

Blowing forth from deep in, blowing like a blaster—
an os[tinato] that’s sustained as notes on a score’s leaves.
When the breech is opened, out a sonic swell comes,
Ceased swells, done deep noises; winched again is Steve.