Commandment
It is a holy thing to make men blush!
To bring still waters out of stingy stone,
And, with the frisky flitting of a thrush,
Flay flesh—pink, plump, and pulsing—to the bone.
The old men you must oft abash the most!
For them, each carnal colloquy's a slap
For, as they wait to slip away a ghost,
They do forget the pleasures of the strap—
Or whip, or kiss, or touch, or tempt, or tease—
And now deem all these matters an affront
To decency. They think they know what's sleaze,
What parts of lust must linger undiscussed.
And yet, you sane men always miss my point
When on my cockerels you wish swift death,
Deride each pearl which juicy clams appoint,
And damn sweet dampness to your dying breath.
Ironic how your issue's very little.
You must, my darlings, be a tad less lit'ral.