Suffering Not The Woofits

Suffering not the woofits,
for my mind is long and well,
I bear a quill and some ink
to chatter-up darken tales.

Be it fulminous or near dusk,
seeming a bit doolally, 
my cock suckers-up to a peach, 
if it's obviously raised with swell.

And now that the peat is on the moss,
I am at loss for anabiosis,
when the cunt is on the floss,
I remain loss in your woo.

But as my words of stutter,
singing of Marilee,
we will kiss the early morn,
seeming a bit doolally.