Thirty-Eight C Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

God, will you help me just today?

I am confronted by a velvet skinned young maiden.
Or should I say presented with her by the grace of...YOU?
Her skin is softer than your own chamois
when it's been soaked in Wolf Blass Chardonnay.
Size 38, a C you know it means to me
that I will have both hands full just to taste
extravagance right in the land of plenty.
You only gave me, Lord, such paltry set of tools,
those hands that reach to her and test her soul's own water.
I am a breast man, as you know, so I will surely drool
and nibble gently, take my time for our sweet journey.
But tell me Lord, what should I do when sweetness
and scrumptious mounds of womanhood beguile me?
There are so many other regions that YOU thought of.
And that draw me; will you consider making time stand still for now?
I could then tear myself away from velvet breasts,
perhaps keep one hot hand upon the biggest nipple,
then cruise to other valleys and some luscious meadows,
with wondrous eyes of childhood and with awe.
How can I kiss her delicate and ruby
manuka-sweet and cherry-ripened lips,
to then depart from your extreme creation
from titillation and the promised bliss?
To find the softest spot in this warm body
I do not need to have you guide me, God.
You have equipped me with your usual foresight
with searching tongue and one more useful feature.
So, on my way I am, I thank you God, for giving
such loveliness and beauty to this sinner.
You made the parts that fit but wisely kept your hand
away from our most private, lustful moments,
so that the pleasure of two sweating bodies
is ours to have and love and keep within ourselves.
I've found it now, and did I mention velvet,
or silk or satin, nothing comes that close.
She said it was her softest spot and God knew
that she was right and then He closed his eyes.
And I don't care about atomic bombs or mayhem,
of frank starvation or the wrath of Hell.
I'm drinking at the fountain of creation
and will remain there under this soft spell.