In the history of romance and the annals of love,
we wrote a new chapter on how the earth moves,
and slips off it’s grooves of tectonic countours.
Dancing on quicksands, our manoeuvres are skewed.
From cool penthouse rooves to hot sweaty sewers,
we are the hewers of love!
My wits are up-ended.
I am stumped and extended.
A part of me, looks down, from above.
I cannot recover.
My mind’s gone white nova,
my heart so bowled over, by love.
In the history of romance and the annals of love,
we climbed the mad mountains of passion to prove
that we sought out the truth in our quest to improve
or perversely to soothe the fragile conscience of youth.
From cool penthouse rooves to hot sweaty sewers,
we are the hewers of love!
I only discovered,
what must be uncovered,
the secrets the ancients approve.
My arcane research,
on the base, primal urge,
was a boon to a soul far removed.
In the history of romance and the annals of love,
we added new mysteries and black latex gloves.
If love is sweet poison then let’s drink of the vial,
with wet-lipped emotions and coy, teasing smiles.
The scales of old Richter shot through the moon,
my head full of pictures: of cities in ruin.
(And all this, just from screwing!)
But I know what I’m doing,
’cause I know I’m in heaven with you.
My brain is hot-wired.
I am driven, inspired,
by the spirit, distilled in your gaze.
My whole essence conspires
to be drunk with desire
and burn with all fires, ablaze.
We’re each of us actors, waiting for cues.
Each enraptured with nothing to lose;
who can make the earth move,
and slip off it’s grooves, of tectonic countours.
Dancing on quicksands, our manoeuvres are skewed.
From cool penthouse rooves to hot sweaty sewers,
we are the hewers of love!
We are the hewers of love!
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