THE BADDE TOUCHE - a pop sonnet

Sweat! Sex, it doth be like a Texas drought.
We do things of which only Prince would tell.
Put thy hand down my pants, rummage about;
Nuts shalt thou feel, and call ye me Siskel.

Of the two handed touch art thou sickest,
Rough dost thou like it, smother’d shalt thou be.
Never reach the apex, coming quickest.
An hour early shalt thou raiseth me.

Requir’d be a mop to clean up our love.
I desire to be in your southern seas.
Show me thine, show thee mine; “Tool Time” thereof.
Shouldst we do it like hounds, watch we TV.

You and I, we are nought but a mammal.
Make we like the discovery channel?