If I Do It, You Can'T Tell Poem by James McLain

Words roll in never ending waves
from shores of oceans long lost
from minds of all.
Tongues like yours carry a sentence
of death for we whom
crawl at your feet.
Queen of pain that renders sight
outrageously sane sipping wine.
Firm is firm in the voice I hear call
your name fleet is your foot standing
upon my back wresting your joys in
hand firm such grip gently applied
in times of need lost in washed agony.