She loves my wicked pen,
My wicked pen of non-commitment,
For she is married already,
My wicked pen is what makes her heady.
My touch, my kiss fills her loneliness
With excitement and lust for life.
“Write me, write to me autumn’s poet,
Spare no ink, drown my thoughts of thinking
This afternoon I am dreaming of your wicked pen,
Spare no cost, use it all,
I’m so glad “it’s” big and you’re so tall,
A perfect fit for my impassioned parchment,
Spread your ink rich and thick,
I can’t get enough of it.”
She said exasperatedly,
She, the married young lady.
Dear young married ladies
Full of sensual gravy
I cannot muse this from the vanities of imagined mind,
It has happened to many times,
With young married ladies in passions sublime
You just wish to escape for a mid morning
Or an afternoon’s time.
She might be twenty-three as she stares at me
With that sexy smile.
She could be thirty-four– slender and sleek
Her passions start when she enters my keep,
She is twenty-seven with a build from heaven
She loves her tall latte but only in the mornings,
She is twenty-five with curvaceous legs and killer eyes
And I am the guy that spreads her sexy thighs,
She is thirty-three and looks nineteen
She graces me on bended knees,
And they keep giving me golden things
As they remove their left hand fingered rings.
Nine young married women in all
Over five years they called just loving to ball,
From short and skinny
To brawny shoulders bonny and tall
With a narrow waist to this poet’s taste
Like sleek golden leopards on the hunt,
Really, they are not asking too much,
Just looking for the weathered poet as their prey,
To relieve their pent-up passions in mid morning or afternoon play,
With deep felt sexualities in every way,
Yes, their husbands keep them just as a display.
So here is to the young married women,
My dear friends from short too tall,
Lovely intelligence and ladies all,
Slender and sleek with impassioned feet
Built to the hilt and ever so sweet
Your love I promise to keep
Beneath crimson sheets.
But, be weary lovely young married ladies,
Love of passions may fall deeper,
Turning to love of soul and spirit,
For an autumn poet a generation away,
Things are going beyond play,
The young married lady starts to wonder,
Deeper passions may be her blunder,
A poet’s epithet
What will it be?
“Here lays their autumn muse,
They used him well but never abused,
They loved him to death,
Never giving him a rest,
But he fulfilled their passion’s request
In such loving lasciviousness.”
Or will it be what ended me,
“A bullet to the chest,
Which husband is any one’s guess”