Whistle Clock

Laughing bright eyed in the grass

I smelled your scent as your body passed

dreading Monday at Sunday noon

you''ll be returning here none too soon

The touch of a supple woman

The love of a dog

soaking in simple pleasures

Like a crack in the fog

I saw pressure come pouring out

I cut you open and let it out

Then comes the piston stroke again

compressing muscle like oxygen

The purr of a perfect lover

The curve of a song

soaking in simple pleasure

like a crack in the fog

You may serve them roses

you may serve their delight

but when the working day closes

I sing you sweetly goodnight

You duck your head when the Banchee screams

and pray for days shorter than they seem

then comes the whistle clock again

you wanna leave but your legs can''t bend

Still serving roses

serving roses and red