by Thomas Hews

Created on: January 25, 2009

Beg, I flex your senses, tickling your tongue,

I am that one taste you just cannot place.

The one that begs for a taste to be sung

or acted out by those women in lace;

but you want it too much, what you feel's greed

that clutches in desp'ration as you chase me,

you are the addict of my well placed seed.

But the waves of time will drift on the sea

Passing fancies won't quench your quenchless thirst

You plead for me, and all that I will do

for you, is tease your senses til they burst.

I am one of those tastes you can't pick out

I'm the creation that leaves you in doubt.

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