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A poem of love's joy, for Victoria
jonvalurjensson

A lawyer has found her poet fine.

"Indeed we are rich if you are mine."

Smilingly did she have her sips

of rosy wine just to wet her lips.

Cosily, in her summer-like dress

on the sofa she will his gentle hands bless.

"Soft is your skin, and sweet are your thighs,"

says he with such a glimpse in his eyes.

Touching her knees with a gentle kiss,

"so close to you is my path to bliss!"

The sun will be shining on their fine days,

blessed as he is by his muse's gaze.

And under her butt he will gladly lift,

as they are mounting their horses swift.

In- and out-doors with his Helen of Troy,

riding so oft by the Hill of Joy.

Likewise, resting in many a place,

he takes his time to adore her grace …

and nurture with love in mutual bliss.

No longer she called herself a Miss!

"The tits of your breasts are my soul's abode,"

he mused in his joy, and on they rode.

Such is the tale of a pair well-known:

Victoria sweet and her poet Jón.

                                               1–10 August, 2016


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