??Ira?
Emerald eyes of most sullen sheen
pierce the soul, those eyes of green.
A gaze of relentless stormy sky
ache the seduction drawing nigh.
Her tender heart, like the Monarchs wing,
pounds in fury for the coming king,
the butterfly bosom thus leads astray
all sanity??s reason on this very day.
A hearken most eager to heavenly tune,
dancing naked under a summers moon,
thinking of pleasure amidst all fair pain,
Ira feeds her king, and receives his reign.
I wrote this last night :stoned:, and thought it sounded cool. :cool: