"Good sir,
I have no quarrel with thee!"
but a quarrel we must
with the instinct to thrust
into and within physical fits
to rouse, to spill, the lust
extended blade of steel
unsheathed, the heated
feel of blood that boils
the sword, a rigid eel
clash the blades and
ring, the song they sing
in rhythm, in thrusts
through the air they swing
alas, to fall upon his sword
run me through my kind Lord
savor your blade within my
gut, what pleasure you hoard
warmth flows and spills out
upon my chest and all about
pull from me no longer your
blade, pray now it be a spout
leave me in the awe of death
twas my birth upon your breath
wipe your sword with my cloak
and immerse within my depth
"Good sir,
thou taketh advantage of me!"
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