If but your tongue were ‘twixt your thighs
and the beauty of your every word,
nectar to feed our hive,
win you could each bed-debate
and with white gold our coffer stuff!
Alas! Your tongue, you fool,
you keep within your mouth.
Your honey’s but craven words.
What’s ‘twixt your legs and in your loins
is quite less even than attempt.
My discourse wants some fresh,
some better body-speaker.
Of words, enough. Begone!
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2012
O'Driscoll's Take on the World 