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My Maiden

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Reservation of tongue is my priumvirate request,
So she knows her disposition to be gentile.
The tips of each finger, for optimum pleasure,
A frigid touch they must have however humid she feel.
The scent of a lady, of course, must be divine,
Or else this lass shall be no lover of mine.

Stretched out from her torso, two arms must divine
And at each hip in turn a flaunced leg must unfurl.
From her crown must flow forth fanciful locks
Of tassled maize fit for the most bejewled of girls.
Speckled from ear to ear, like asters past the moon,
Her face shall be freckled if it is I who shall swoon.

For a lady to charm me, her wit must be fierce
Lest I judge her on visage, or my fancy is lost.
Her features shall be divine, God given only,
No paints or masques on my beauty ‘s the cause.
And if fancy shall strike that one blows through a flute,
The woman I love will have dentise in foot.

Carved by artisans, the clavicle of hers shall be
So each turn of her head makes my voice tremble.
Let her have silent grace in prose, song or canvas
For my heart requires only poetic ensemble.
For my heart to beat true in the favour of hers,
My darling must facet her own life’s contours.





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