Monday, October 04, 2004
Smitten
His beak have spoken,
in his very merry token,
of sizzling osculation,
and tantalising questions.
We sing. I, jazz. You, classical.
One Chopin and one Sinatra.
But we got along to the tune of Amazing Grace.
Because We got rhythm. Because We got swing.
The ressonance that nothing could rebuff.
And that embrace; I couldn't bear enough.
That slight brush of your tounge,
and those hands. That is the next rung...
Hold me tight.
cuRRent...jer
You are my tenorboy and I love you so.
¶ 1:11 pm
