Here's a nice inappropriate poem to get us started..
I suck at poetry and I have no idea why my mind comes up with these things. It seems to be an itch that must be scratched occasionally.
In a northern nonexistent continent there are no words for objects like lips or breasts.
In a southern nonexistent continent there are no words for actions like imagining or desiring.
In that nonexistent world, my reality exists only at the equator - the intersection of the untranslatable where I am fucking you senseless.
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