Evangeline
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Buttercup as an anemone, I see my bonbon
In the midst of a wharve spin,
Graciously thin languette,
Ecclesiastic, a true coquette,
Offered for a handful of sequin
On the 1000-thread linen, rests Evangeline!
Shine the uptown shrine with whispering vocal cords
As the frock is overcome with a slow descend,
Never mind the sallow ambience of
An ageing Jesuit mission, or thereof,
Words of prohibition annulled by disparlure:
Madame! – as they say, I don’t kiss-poor.
My appearance, utterance of faith,
Expected and grandiloquent,
Clasped the mortification with inflamed blood,
Yet budding desire, instantly prescribed,
Not to let it out of my sight.
But to greybeard wonderful torrents of luxury,
About to 5G live-stream this imperious rite
Will put a stop to any cavil,
A cue in hand to excite ’n’ appease the inner devil,
I abide the coming, Evangeline!
Cordial satisfaction, marvellous plantation of joy,
Memento mori, I must this very moment, I must die.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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