F - Sir, your mouth is a potent stimulant

Sir,
Your head is a logo adorning your neck
Your body is a limp organ, a gear that grinds out
the movement, your arms are swings
that cradle children and folios
of equal fragility to and fro
Above them all gapes your abyss
of a mouth that goes down on us
when we're laid for you
like some great plate of fodder

Sir,
Your tongue is artful indeed, dear sir
As one of your audience I am struck and afflicted
The miasma of your breath enraptures, and oh!
The potency of your promise!
Yet your body is near useless, only flailing
in the wake of the mouth, of the stale air
The fingers won't reach into the crevices
your speech addresses, won't hook
them as deep as your policies

Madam,
Your zeal extends farther than your countenance
which remains very grave and unmoved
The scraps of skin under your nails
betray hatred for the very thing you covet
I think you are too artificially frigid
towards the male parts that you usurped
Your mouth too is a potent stimulant
but you seem at pains to serve me
I sympathise, but sympathy
is not what you want from us strumpets

Sir,
You like to bite sometimes, I notice
You love to play hard to get when we mouth back
I believe your own chasms are black as space
as unknown in intent and extent, although
I'm sure some seductress has worked her way in
You spend so much time drawling on and on
Were your mouth to be sealed
why, you'd be no use to us any longer
We'd have to find another

for as I've said, time and time again
(I'm learning, do you see?)
your body is a pockmarked moon
to the nova stars of your words
blazing fiercely inside us so we writhe
You leave me believing the country
couldn't be in better hands
for yours are stiff, cupped and near
incapable of cruel manipulation
I know you won't beat me
as soon as the honeymoon ends