The most risqué thing I could do is to write a Nabokovian poem:
O,
when her lips took a trip to the field of budding roses,
where the honey bees suck the sweetest nectars!
La Laaa,
the tip of her tongue,
twice, tapped the arch of my universe!
And I whispered her name, till the end of aaa,
till dissipation of sound;
where words imprison passion,
in this battle of syntax and rhyme.
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