Crawl

The taste of your anaemic skin
quenched upon Cymru tongue,
let me swim in the sweat of your neck
and roll my tongue over how Burton seduced Taylor
each whispered vowel would drive her legs wider.

Geography of your jaw
is a county wishing for a continent to invade,
if I could write the verbs of your cunt
then even Shakespeare would blush and die
the groin of my discontent

We are the Welsh
the feral you only see on tattooed skin

We are the Welsh
who  have died in
so many wars
for freedom…..