She tastes like top shelf,
Making a man’s heart melt,
Taking time to find the roses vine & smell,
Wine’s fine for me, well
I didn’t tell her I wrote poetry,
until she asked,
What’s up with the stash
big stacks of paper scraps?
Not so fast, would you please pass the hash,
When she hits her climax,
my tongue is on her lips in the last lap,
waiting for her scratch,
digging on my back,
turning her on the table’s flat surface,
like turntables and a free wax purchase,
a priceless verdict.