Sonnet 130-A
My love, caress me only with thine eyes,
And not with hands, so bare, where corn now grows,
Or call to me as of brisk wind that blows,
With thy damp breath which always brings the flies;
Let me drink of Cognac, filled flowing be,
Or else, just kiss the brim of my wine cup,
Before I toast, and fully drink it up,
Oft thou consumes the contents, before me,
Now speak to me so dearly with catcalls,
To complement thy sharp and pointed claws,
Which might highlight thine other childish flaws,
That could explain, to some degree, thy falls;
........But mark to Heaven mine love's industry,
........That makes up for her lacking artistry.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
Added by Poetry Lover
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