You will see now why I say

That the lips of a woman have never met mine:

When she pulled me behind the tent that day

And caressed a disgusting boy with a voice divine

I shuddered not for that gentle touch,

For shy it was but no less mine.

In the shadows of a winter month, much

Was said from lips of thick, taste sweet with wine.

I could not say who first pulled away

But admit her love did make me sick.

A more putrid sight among the fray

Was never seen, nor heard, nor prick'd

And no more did she begin to guide my hand

Than laughter echoed -

At the corpse who kissed the bearded woman.

- -

My first attempt at a poem in over four years, and first Erik poem ever. This will probably be the only one!