Hair brown- falls into the lips/ I might kiss/

If they linger like this/ your inner might twitch/

Tastes that indulge in themselves, in self assured perfection,

Are dead past resurrection/ I move and your caressing/

In every sense, it is a business and I understand/

I am the supply and your are the demand/

Instead, we are still seated, the sliver/ of duck liver/

Is something more when on your fork,

Never mind that we can not afford,

The way you close your lips/ on a foreign dish/

Causes chills that make the body quiver/

The heart goes at a high-rate/ the blood is on a highway/

And my mind is irate/ “why don’t you make a move?”/

You may produce “Seinfeld” moments but it does not mean

You should curb your enthusiasm, too./