May I confess to the glorious feeling that
many say?
But how little they know about the art of
parting from inaccessible legs.
Outside a warming up of power and honor, the
dirt from the soles erasing against the sills, the
boxes are snapped,
I burn the unaccountable itch between the legs.
By filling two berries with hardness,
giving them a foretaste of an entrance---
I, a slave of a quarry,
corrode the girl with caress.
In poses of defiantly cynical
ladies, to discover the frenzy of the tales,
to become in the tastes of a boldly unusual,
generous plot with surprising things........
I do not regret myself strenuously
and pray that you remember this,
apply the measure of the statue
to the scepter of a slave quarry.
