A Toss About the Country

You skip along the path in youthful mirth
I watch your ass hit up against your skirt
Seeing you kneel laying blanket to earth
Makes me dream of the threads on your tight-on-breasts shirt

Neither have I hunger for the freshly killed beast
Nor fruits nor breads nor wines nor olives fresh
My ache is to crawl 'twixt your legs so to feast
On the soft pinkish folds of your intimate flesh

What? Have I been brought up surrounded by queers
I feel like I spent the last six years in prison
How sweet your light voice kisses burning red ears
Even more of a shame I'm refusing to listen

The lure of your body just holds me transfixed
I fear that I should make a little mess
If your shoulder shifted the shirt over your poorly hidden tits
And the wind blew a billow up your dress