Language
She's all alone,
having left her parent's home;
a free bird, a truant, a hobo she's,
who couldn't stand discipline anymore!
She loves aho to rock, rollick, gyrate
and ball to thy rhythm and rhyme O' poet!
But lo, so tender she's, the language bud.
Tend her with little, little sprinkles sweet
of nectarine muse till blossoms full
in to a flower with dripping deluges of honey.
Be a true poet...sensitive, sensible and sensuous...
make love with her to make her happy...
All this care and caution I have to say O' Poet,
since I know of those Professors
and grammarians,
who try to rape.
Copyright © Mydavolu Venkatasesha Sathyanarayana | Year Posted 2016
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