Twisted by sea shells on a sea shore
If smitten, she'll lick lips with haste
She'll savour the flavour and beckon for more
She's a muscle who lives for the taste

 

Mother of language, mistress of drool
Though nerves can make her too dry
If she's tied by your words, you'll look like a fool
If she's forked, you're likely to lie

 

Hold her, bite her if she's feeling too sharp
And inclined to lash out and hurt
Put her in your cheek and she'll play her part
If a wry point you wish to assert

 

Silver when ready to win a gold chance
If smitten, she'll lick lips with haste
There to assist in affairs of romance
She's a muscle of flair and fine taste