The Cooing In Thick French Air

The Cooing In Thick French Air The cooing in thick French air is lithe much as the waves of its shores dot the air with rushful wind, tenderly haste to lift the girl's blouse off her knees, to catch a glimpse calmly, to feel once more softly. Now even gentler, the wind removes the shakles that subdue her, it touches one fair girl's shrouded smile to blossom in youth, to capture another's stare until he becomes wind himself, and lifts the girl's blouse. Were it the making of love I'd not comply to it, but it is just the cooing in thick French air, her skin to softly wallow once more with wheat, with her caress upon the souls.