Poemas ingleses/XIV

The bridegroom aches for the end of this and lusts To know those paps in sucking gusts, To put his first hand on that belly's hair And feel for the lipped lair, The fortress made to be taken, for which He feels the battering ram grow large and itch. The trembling glad bride feels all the day hot On that still cloistered spot Where only her maiden hand did feign A pleasure's empty gain. And, of the others, most will whisper at this, Knowing the spurt it is; And children yet, that watch with looking eyes, Will now thrill to be wise In flesh, and with big men and women act The liquid tickling fact For whose taste they'll in secret corners try They scarce know what still dry.