To drink your rub, you gift ambrosial mead,
Elixir slips and balms my aching throat.
It films my tongue and soothes when sipping cream,
Your potion quells a wash of warming coat.
The extract seeps, the sweetest, oozing sap,
Your trunk it weeps and offers healing milk.
From root to tip I swirl the softest lap,
Our sacred rite, cleansed in ablution's silk.
This tonic drunk revives my vital winds,
I beckon forth this panaceaic spill.
When savoured slow I sense my ails rescind,
Til sated in the bathing of our fill.
Then tidal waves come crashing both our ships,
Exchanging seed from one another's lips.