My Run-Around Girl

With purpose, coining every apt cliche'
to describe my flamboyant, coy Renee
She has morphed into my run-around girl;
any buff caddy, she will take for a whirl
To every, stout javelin, her hips curl,
in the pleats of every sanded dune furls
Her beaming eyes eclipse every full moon,
glancing sinuous busts, her feral heart croons
Virile, masculine scents, her nostrils swell,
straining through puckered lips, hormones to quell
Sighting six pack abs, her mouth drools;
her mind each, threaded fiber spools
Hands in every, mossy treasure chest pries,
with preening fingers every loose end ties
Streams into every, prim, iris vent,
with her lusty beams, builds a makeshift tent