I pray thee, dear nun,
a morning psalm don’t be to me.
Would rather you sow, deep in my heart,
the yearning of your bud,
in the wake of twilight.
I pray thee, dear nun,
in vain doth my want restrain
from wrapping us in a hell of heavenly bliss,
for though I kiss my Rosary, still it be blasphemy
to rise and fall in lust’s refrain.
The lingering whiff of your first menses
nor the beauty wrapped in flowing gown,
doth conceal your innert desires,
nor veil, with virtues, you [I dread to say nor write],
for we’re far beyond those pretenses
in which we cage love in pious frown
You could hold a smile,
it won’t millstone your soul
and cast thee hence in heart of Sheol.
Shed now your sigh,
estranged the flowing gown
and let your long-lost heart embrace wanton thoughts.
For they both appear, to pay sin’s toll,
not one word from thence shall condemn your soul
So would you make me now sweat beads
from your Rosary?
Would you let me take to another realm
where clouds shall welcome our sensual fury
with faith, with love, with unholy melodies?
I pray thee, dear nun, you to overwhelm.
