Creeping as a strand of bougainvillea,
I extend questing tendrils, where I should
Perhaps maintain distance; my vine can't help itself,
My thorny strands, for you, have definite wood.
Not that I have wood, in that way.
I'm all woman, as are you, and thus our love's proscribed
Else I know you'd soon repay my tender feelings,
And respond carnally, completely, in kind.
How your youthful fire doth burn,
Setting our minds and hearts alight,
And our groins, too, in their turn.
(Not as if you have VD,
Nor any other malady so pernicious.
I just mean you make us horny, and for you
We throb, mostly from afar, with pangings that are vicious.)
And lo! we must return to thy bosom,
For I feel too oft do we neglect,
Those trembling, if slightly smaller-than-average, ivory mounds,
In efforts to be circumspect.
But let us not forget--upon your (marginally undersized) prophetic bosom, it is said,
Is the place where any man/woman, seeks to rest his/her head.