Forbidden cricket song
hills of grassy fields without mowing,
resonate a gushing spring worth welling,
your hairy shanks tonight slide
against me, hidden by cuff of jean,
vegetation’s swelling I know
mother nature’s maestro
no feline stomach could play
poetry scraping me to sleep.
Of cricket-song
I saw your leg hair tonight
and it turned me on;
I thought of the intimate beauty
we will have–how it will go on and on
no matter what they prescribe
oh–the sound of them scraping
more beautiful than a summer
of cricket-song.