The hearts of men are pure,
That I have met
Except that mine is fragile
Such frailty of mine on this subject.
What would we do without women
As men born of women?
Take time to trace
Passing through the passage
Of your deepest thoughts
Probing with sincerity as your torch
The inner chambers of your mind
And think of what you find.
She lies bare waiting
Behind the curtain in your heart
After all the struggles of the day
After all the trophies have been gathered
She stands there waiting
At the thresholds of your thought
Like you did it all for her.
What would we do without them?
Even when such holiness we claim.
What man has not fallen between her laps?
Inside sucking secretly and savouring
The flavour of her warmth.
When she places her hand on my brow
Oh when she moves it down
To my chest, bare.
Leaving it there
And breathing my name so softly
In my head it’s like…
I told you of my frailty
Drugged with many shots of passion.
Like a dirty man
Lost in lust
Frail like great king David
At the sight of his soldier’s wife
And her wise son.
One thousand women.
What would we ever do without them?
Even with all our greatness.
I respect my friend who said
He will never be moved: Freudian slip.
For disgusting, as it is,
No man sees a naked maid
And fails to colour the image
In the secret bower of his chest.