Essence in the Fur
Breasts of the babe, touch of the fur...
It's the illusion young men chase now,
It's a look some would put on.
I'm the dreaming victim of the Essence in the Fur.
Hot and cold, wet nose, warm breath, slippery tongue--
And the smell of dog.
The touch of paper figments, and my dream world starts to stir...
I long for every chance to leave the waking world behind,
I look for every virtue in the humble, meek canine.
I don't want pets, I don't want dogs--I want a lonely lass,
Or boyish face, but every time I make a passing glance,
At the art of dreaming sorts like me, it brings me back again--
I want to wag my tail with them, and it'll _neve_r end.
And sometimes, I think I'd look good,
In hooves or serpent's scales,
And sometimes I want wings to fly,
Or nine kitsune tails.
And yeah, it gets me quite aroused, to think--
"Out there, she waiting..."
The girl with that big thing for fur,
And always--I'm debating:
Is this a dream of Heaven, or am I some deluded cur?
I'm yet another victim of the Essence in the Fur...