E. E. Cummings

O It’s Nice To Get Up

O It’s Nice To Get Up In,the slipshod mucous kiss of her riant belly’s fooling bore —When The Sun Begins To(with a phrasing crease of hot subliminal lips,as if a score of youngest angels suddenly should stretch neat necks just to see how always squirms the skilful mystery of Hell)me suddenly grips in chuckles of supreme sex. In The Good Old Summer Time. My gorgeous bullet in tickling intuitive flight aches,just,simply,into,her.  Thirsty stirring.  (Must be summer.  Hush.  Worms.) But It’s Nicer To Lie In Bed —eh? I’m not.  Again.  Hush.  God.  Please hold.  Tight

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