I dart,
with a southern tongue,

[lapping the juices from
your apple pie]

while my hands comb through
your soul

my veins sweat
as I feel you quiver

I've got pressure from a past war
trying to seal my mouth
[a yankee is never 
supposed to
taste a belle]

but you charmed my honey;
then I stole your jar

let's crawl in; 
close the lid,
and
smother our lust.
06/18/2005