She Slept - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Born as a wombat circumstance decreed
that I would metamorph into a moth.
Which is, (admit it) nothing but the need
of some religious and so ancient piece of cloth.
I sat contentedly upon the window sill,
to keep the mozzies from her partly covered legs,
outside the clatter of the New Age Builders' mill
there was a carton of Rhode Island fertile eggs.
She slept the sleep of peace and beauty in her sheet,
cheeks flushed and lips apart, wait for my kiss.
I sat quite still, let her be gone until we meet
let dreams be kind to her, and chase away all bliss.
I sat all night on that plain latex painted sill,
I'd never tire of her bosom rising high,
I shall behave my Lord to get you to fulfill
my fervent wish, all other thought would be a lie.
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