A Wet Peach
Smile e' heathery peaches,
though snow be falling softly.
A fuzz to yer texture touch-
yer coating turns leathery.
Ail is yer juice- wine within-
O frozen peach numbs 'y tounge.
Thoush winter be calling now,
yer wounder wind will wipe e down.
Lying peaches- a lean pink
smoothing to gray softness-
freezing ail underneath yer skin.
And I seek and loathe yer wetness.
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