My soul is in heat, like a bitch, hungry,
yes, hungry for action, hungry for dick,
son of a bitch, we're just sons of bitches,
of carnal lust, of molten flesh, angry
underhanded schemers, love 'em and leave,
lighthearted flibberty-gibbets, their trick
is to disappear once their flesh itches
simply for a light touch from Dear Old Scratch
in Dear Old Stockholm, nothing up his sleeve,
nothing at all, Skratte goes as he please,
hungry for stink, for some pink, with a wink,
eyes catch Old Scratch and smile, never a tease,
a mischievous sleaze, a skank in the clink,
to give the Devil his due is a match.
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