Down, dead, dried,
Its the evening's sign,
Spears of horny grapes
And the blueberry vine.
We had all eight
The feeling's sublime,
Still a glass was filled,
The glass numbered nine.

An arm on the slap,
She wasn't blinking,
Her breast, lined deep,
Expanding, shrinking.
She saw me jaw-dropped,
Number eight, still starring,
Drank her wine, turned to me,
Oh God,...