Sunday Cocktail

I must admit beloved, were it not for that trans-atlantic smile that's had so many a seaman set sail to explore it's reach in a stormy jouney to the india's of the west, where native chiefs would've most certainly bowed before your celestial beauty in a mortal deed of infinite hearts enthraled- Then the spurs of many a lyric that I have concieved of you, would be the bellow of a hollow heart, uninspired and cast into itself in vanity to be the triumph of joyous ignoralisis.

You extend your legs with this, this skill as if leaping over the final pearly gates- how could heaven deny thee its fruits when its streets were laid for thee. You moon walk on shells, swaying your hips in a careless perpetual motion as if denying many an envious fall.

Indeed beloved, you know your craft. You mould my lips and you shape my heart- you my latest fashion and I wear you within. Were it not for all these charms- Then perhaps in death I would lie with my hands in open splendour to recieve you yonder, but now, damned by my talent that goads me quite, I have cast my pen to thee and lie with my fingers pinched.