Bacchus begone,
I will never taste a wine
As potent or as sweet as those soft, pink, dew-kissed lips.
There is no grape as round or luscious
As her dimpled, yielding globes,
And when she dances, I die
a sweet death, and beg with every breath
To have her in my mouth again,
To sip her honeyed juices,
As she writhes upon my tongue.