Dearest maiden for thy'st hair, the trees wave amongst the wind,
And thou'st dearest denials of words, the spoken boulders unkind.
But the lingering urge to implant upon thy lips but a single kiss,
Only to draw upon the conjurings of the dreaded addictive bliss.
Oh, a body of warmth must due for the late lonesome nights,
And an angelic face sent from angelic heaven must deem a'sites.
Yet thy warmth, but a blistering heat in the stifling summer air,
A lusting, firing desire for thy skin to touch wholesomely bare.