A Small Mountain Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It is an organ, albeit small,
protruding, as it does,
a tiny knob.
At home it is on minor lips,
more secrets well concealed
inside a shroud.
Its raison d'être in all mammals
(hyenas are exceptions which is sad)
is the giving of
and simultaneous taking in
of tasted pleasure,
now and then.
This, as a gift to females from biology,
develops from a tubercle
and ends up either way.
It tickles first the mind
but soon it overwhelms,
by power of eightthousand nerves,
all set to tease
and capable to please.
Its head is veiled
by an exotic hood,
it has a shaft
and inner lips
as well as crural legs,
there are some vessels,
muscles, ligaments
and central station
called the commissure
with a fourchette.
I love to spend some time
there, at the shady place,
Mons Pubis it is called.
And yes, it has it all.




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