Smashing Cowgirl Riding Raves of Quasar Rage

By Daniel Paul Jacobus

Born in Texas and raised in an Air Force family, Dan traveled to England, Pennsylvania, San Antonio before settling in Cowtown.

He attended UT Austin for four years studying English Lit. He went to Shakespeare at Winedale one summer. After school he was a remodel contractor for over thirty years. He does Santa gigs each Chri

• Language: English
• Publisher: EA Media and Publishing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957384306

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Smashing Cowgirl Riding Raves of Quasar Rage

Smashing Cowgirl Riding Raves of Quasar Rage

Daniel Paul Jacobus

Copyright © 2023 by Daniel Paul Jacobus

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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ISBN: 978-1-957384-31-3 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-957384-32-0 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-957384-30-6 (E-book Edition)

Book Ordering Information

Phone Number: 929-334-4203 ext. 1000 or 347-349-4971

Email: [e-mail]

Executive Access Media & Publishing

www.eamediaandpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

All you seekers for sext partners, I have pixie dust to sprinkle on your esophagus: sweet words to interest internet maidens, charms to convince fence-straddling favorites, musical remedies to cure the heart broken, and puzzles to muzzle loud bums from Hoboken. Take the sweetness of my verse and feed the beaks of feathered birds. Taste the marvels of your turmoil as it turns clay into marble. Fan the spark into a flame as you muscle into Life’s game. Don’t be afeared or doubt the message for the heart loves a good shagging. Make your passion a gem for the asking as you ride lust’s storm tossed package.

The tone of your vixen skin puts zombies into foaming fits, and the shape of your feral legs makes Dracula shit. The buxom burn of those breasts lights a fire into Frankenstein’s brain. And the force of those nipples salute makes the conquering Aliens warships insane with abject worship and painful remembrance.

Do you want me to bite you? Can I stab your gut? Paw your haunches and manhandle the bum? Whack a mole and jack in the box. Slap and pull hair in a romp. Nothing’s off the table when we go to the stable. You kiss me as I whip you. I’m so mixed up.

Love away while the moon is hammering down upon our lusty wishes. You are beautiful in your mystery and mysterious in your booty.

Fecund sump of epic longing wash me with your Levi laundry. Smashing facet soccer goal soap in up my fishin hole. Seat of the heat of madness fed coals serenading frogs with your Yo yo! Mystic lagoon of manana blind man’s cove that caves Nirvana. Fertile swamp of lily pads, cottontails swish oh so bad. So bad you lose my bobber when you laugh with your laughter. Sent in wave patterns, tickle trout that kicks my pail with gales of rapture--what a bother! To make me bail with sneaker soles then trip my bass back into that shiner pail. Hell. Fatten me up with your hunt ’n’ gather, log stumps and tricky shadows, so give me hope to slope off from your gallows.

Roll me leaky like an oak barrel there between the willows, leeches, bring your posse home to Daddy. Bring me home.

You’re hotter than paradise and roll no snake eyes.

Your hump is the Olympic champion in the fifteen minute wild.

Your pose is perfect and sheen so enchanting, I want to measure your circle, work the pi from your panties, check the radius of your diameter, square the equator of that triangle, and slalom the curve off your round bottom.

Yeah, your aura is my altar, your cootch my chalice, your boobs communion, and your bed my cathedral.

They should mount your rack on the Washington Monument to invite the Watchers back into our environment. They could milk em, shag em, flash em across the Abyss, and bag em to take back home to their babe factories, their formula toxic. Improve their de-evolution with a mother solution that will perk them up and keep them from the vortex of mushrooming gloom, a by-product of hyperactive nuts and radioactive cyborg mates on their futurerama sex slave market.

I want to be buried in your bounty a salmon in Life’s sea, ride the swelling waves as I live and breathe. Kiss those merry mammaries in homage and in love. Give thanks to the angels who grant so much.

Ana Banana, I spotted you by the antena. I’ll leave off with wrenching jives lest you adjust me with a spanner. You are too pretty for words. Awful accomplished. Great qualities. No vices. So pure. Man.

Your bubble gum nipples are monuments to the power of cotton candy armatures on electric hospitality devices.

I know your sea weed cave flows with the current of the tide but I don’t know how you feel about amping up the charge of my electric eels fins, gills, and hide.

You’re cute as a bug’s butt shooting farewells from a flying bird’s beak.

You look lush and lovely, luscious and lavish, longing for a Lothario to lumber in and latch onto your lurching larnyx.

You own that spiral magic no hurt can take away. No darkness mars your tartness, or your majesty. Don’t be afraid to shine like a comet on the astral wind. Your sky lark