Oh, Taylor, what do you know? You’re what? 22? Whatever.
You talk tough to your friends, who tell my friends, who don’t buy it because my phone rattles off the bar at midnight, most nights. Face it–you’re addicted to my penis (I’ll keep that between us).
That’s mostly because, unlike your two-pump-chump ex, I have taken the time to explore you more. I found that special place that makes you cream and scream.
But, don’t be discouraged, because there are more men like me. You’ll see. Heck, maybe you’ll find your spot alone and have no use for my bone.
You can’t admit to the shit we tried–so good, you cried. When asked why so red, you lied. I have you sexually fried.
So, sing away your addiction. Go have your fun. You can’t deny I’m the one. Tick, tick, tick. Call me–your sexual 9-1-1.
Loving you again real soon … like for-EVER,
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