Pauline sang like an angel in the choir,
her blue eyes looking heavenward, far past
the stained-glass windows. Yet I laid her fast.
My balls and manhood were her body’s sire.
Her lips were soft, tumescent, from being pleasured,
her subtle thanks for thrusts both deep and strong.
Her delicate hands said she liked it long.
My smacks on her pale ass cheeks were well measured.
She lay with nature’s love inside her womb,
both yoni and nipples swollen, soul content.
I laid her, too, before and after Lent.
Saints on the window never leave the tomb.
My grandson’s knocking at his angel’s door,
for God loves when her panties hit the floor.