Warm Thighs Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It matters not, my friend to me just who you are,
a reputation of acclaim preceded you,
like Doktor Faustus wearing robes, a modern Czar,
you make me shiver as I feel the secret dew.

As for myself, I did enjoy the lustful tone
of sagging springs inside the mattress as you drummed.
I say that Phallus, then as rigid as a bone
would hear the farewell of Carmina as she hummed.

The song of honeysuckle, as it spills with ease
to be awaited by a tremulous, moist tongue.
Oh Priapeia, let us rest beneath tall trees
and taste of waters where the nightingale has sung.

Immersed in streams like rowdy hooligans in May,
with silver pouches bursting wildly at the seams,
in steepled grace both hands embracing as they pray
warmed by soft thighs and extraordinary dreams.