the one who turns
inside the grave
where poets, brave
So ruhig fliesst der Rhein
kein Fischlein denkt
kein Fischer lenkt
den Kahn fuer sich allein,
What a breath of fresh air
and a touch of sweet lips
back you are in my cyberarms
please do pardon my stare
Berlin, they say, is worth a trip
you come, go through the famous gate,
in La Taverna take a nip
where the Blue Angel had her date
My darling, I have a request.
Would you mind if I held you and pressed
both my lips and my face
to your secretive place
The infantile word 'infantile'
brings up in me a bit of bile.
The other word (he called it boring)
reminds me of him never scoring
That day I was in such a rush
I did not see her lovely blush.
How much they blush in the deep South
is quite unknown, but her sweet mouth
I met you, Sandra on a bumpy road
when I was strolling through a field of poetry.
Was passing and surrounded by much muffled laughter,
while flowers swayed and luscious corn stood watching.
At first you note a tightness and
your grip has lost its youth.
It comes and goes, at last it stays
you ask for diagnosis.