Oh thou Chalice of Heaven, give me thy hand.
Thy feet are the petals of roses, as silent as swans they glide.
The music of angels plays with the sway of thy rounded hips
Thy navel is filled with honey, where thy belly dips.
Honeyed breath escapes from your parted lips.
Thy womb is a pleasant pasture, fertile and flowing with nectar,
I come as a humble servant begging to enter thy land.
I have journeyed many a mile. Thou art a work divine.
Do not make denial of he who worships thine every whim,
He who prays for the jewels of thine eyes to turn and shine upon him,
And the burning bow of your smile to bless him with one superior smirk.
The Dreaming Path 