If
you were tickled by the rub of love.
When
young men court virgins,
and
all reason be lost to
them
that are not alive,
of
spirit to indulge in
passion,
unbridled passion.
For
love of all that
sloppy,
drippy, dreamy stuff,
who
wins, who learns,
who
lays awake at night,
which
unloved heart yearns ?
Golden
the flow of arrogance,
a
man alive, he spied her
pants,
the chance to glance
upon
the flesh of what is held.
A
special type of fever,
only
known the the giver
and
at times, also
the
receiver.
Once
more my lover,
in
heat filled days, we ran
along
the banks in folly,
stalked
love undone in autumn
on
the fields of ripened corn,
set
sail into light and dark,
one
special day, one awesome morn'.
Who
has not bet a dollar
to
find the love of ages,
up
on the mount of bitter olives,
and
spurned advances,
whitened
pages, seasoned by sages,
who
clung to rages of ire.
Nothing
stirred, no bird,
a
cool wind blew, and blew,
who
really knew the dew ?
To
ripen love was always
here
in wealth of life,
my
lover smiled inside.
Cower
not to bitterness, youth
is
not often bereft,
like
theft of vitality,
I
wanted to see, you and me
unbridled
by a roaming wood,
something
kissed me,
where
I stood, so damned good.
Helen
was the veal of meat,
where
I undid her blouse,
buttoned
up so neat, so sweet.
And
yet young virgin,
I
have need to ask thee,
A
summer ended in a mystery.
Would
clouds have covered,
had
life of why discovered,
or
in the heat recovered, me...
To
say at last,
would
you be mine,
if
you, were tickled
by
the rub of love ?
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