Mine mind's eye traces the contours
of your high born cheeks
invitingly glowing they are,
they do, they make me wanna wince.
Think me not rude, I pray forgive me.
Your high born cheeks remind me
of that other stately canvas,
I am in the mist of painting.
Your high born cheeks,
are like your global buttocks,
firm and round. Your neck, my dear,
is the neck of Samson's barber.
Again, do not think me fast.
Yep, I'm a monk, I am, I am.
At least, I think I am. More over,
I'm a painter first!
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