With you I will take my time until every supple part has been nurtured With deeds and time I will craft these words Words more real than any poets fire till all is vibrant and quaking inside you And there comes the concession of sweet romance. Yet is this not what you ask of me? Nay justly demand in ripe womanhood Grandeur things than simple nature brings like bees in busy innocence Whom pollinate the flowers in their eager feeding But I am man not bee and by more than primal instinct driven