It was in the summer blazon when I first beheld her face:
Fresh as dew and brazen like a vixen to the chase.
She licked her fleshy tongue around the moisture of her lips
I felt my phallus throbbing to amend her wicked tricks.
She walked on air and water, she sang like bird and bear
But all of this was second to the golden in her hair.
My Charloteen, my wonder, my hussy harlot whore,
I would have paid a thousand pounds to taste the dress she wore.
Yet the funny thing about the girl, the part I almost missed,
It was not talk nor chatter, nor the numbing of her kiss;
The only part about her that I always felt so wrong,
Was that she danced for summer, but by autumn she was gone.
© Marion Grace Woolley