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!