Like castanets his knees chattered together;

 His skin grew veiny and glazed.

‘Oh, my cock!  My cock!’

Cried the masturbating music master.

‘Only look at me with those enchanting eyes.’

And up and down he rubbed a silly little pretty

Pink penis peeking through the hole in his pants.

‘Only look at me with those beautiful lips

And I will come … I will come!’ cried the

Master of music vigourously jerking his

Flabby member to a show of resistance.

‘I am overcome!’

His legs stiffened and he mashed up his face.

A spittle of semen eked out

Hardly wetting the roseate head.

‘Oh, you are lovely. You are lovely!’ he sighed.

Primly, he zipped up his pin-striped fly.

‘Now,’ said the great man, rising precisely

From the piano bench and crossing to her chair.

‘Let us proceed with the lesson.

Which songs did you bring?’

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas