That certain fixture,
Of that brazen and promiscuous texture,
Vows me of a revved night.
Can her eyes tell, of my bland pages?
In taste that of wenches and maidens,
I want a draught of that amorous wine,
That but keeps me from brimming into your eyes.
Can I belong to what’s not mine!?
Or at least cherish from her lips;
In the dimming lights;
The madness of her stringent wine.
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