Foiled again, being a poet’s intemperate and ribald ode attempting to sketch his lover’s marvels

To your buttocks – whether naked or in hose –
an ode how long I’ve wanted to compose!
But so engaged am I when in their proximity,
my every thought of verse does swiftly flee.
Not paper, not pen do my fingers grasp,
but the firm and busy muscles of your ass.
Then – once all the doing’s done and you sleep –
instead of framing phrase on phrase, I keep
watch, entranced by those bold and wondrous globes,
until – still flush with lust – my manhood probes
once more that sweet world ‘twixt your down and rump.
So, again awake, wildly we do thump
wet measures mad, bound but by our whims.
Again delayed, my ode in silence swims
through roiled seas of unspoken rhyme to light
on some deserted shore where Time’s full might
may free my poet’s voice and art,
to paint, in words, your fundamental part.
But look!  You sleep and here am I, awake, alone,
and have begun my skills to craft and hone.
Yet those sweet, sweet spheres I fail to trace.
For now visions of lips – not those of your face –
do fill me quite with mad and fleshly fire.
Damn it!  The ode I did so much desire
never shall be writ!    Come then, let me grasp
the full and frenzied beauty of your ass
whilst my quill deep within you dips,
a captive to those luscious nether lips!

*    *   *

© Gregory V Driscoll  2015

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