When lay, I had decided,
I should with you astride it,
Though we had fornicated
With none but our own sorts –
And "Yea, you'd best believe it"
My tongue allowed bequeath it
Before I had yet sheathed it
I knew it was just sport.

But took me as I came you
And came not to estrange you,
Alas, I, to enjoy you,
And thorough it was good;
That language that I pursued
Was hardy spoke to hurt you,
And since what he had gone through
I've known it never could.

I'm certain you had smiled,
And giggled as a child,
So raging, quiv'ring, wild,
On that gay midnight's ride;
But will you have gone mild
As clarity might style
Beside what rum had riled –
Or hold it you to hide?

Recall, my friend, 'twas nothing
But we and wonder brushing,
And not some foolish rushing,
Nay, 'twas no son of haste.
And should you be forgetting
Those tastes that we were whetting
Within that seldom setting,
I just might call it waste.