Sunday Morning

Early on Sunday morning

an ethereal stillness fills the air,

we lie together tongue and groove

humming such sacred melodies,

it would be blasphemous to move.

Zeiskeit and Zeiskeitel are hugging one

another, a flowery fragrance so delicate

and so you seeps into all my senses.

In hypnogogic wonderment violins play pizzicato

while melded bones begin to twang and thrum

in a pentatonic rhythmic flourish

of perfect pitch and tone.

A rhapsody of heavenly harmonics moves

thigh, leg and groin to butt, wrapped

round and round like Tutankahmen

while listening to a choir of doves

coo-coo-cooing in a soothing refrain.

Whatever must be done will soon be taken

care of, but not on Sunday morning.

Sunday Morning

Early on Sunday morning

an ethereal stillness fills the air,

we lie together tongue and groove

humming such sacred melodies,

it would be blasphemous to move.

Zeiskeit and Zeiskeitel are hugging one

another, a flowery fragrance so delicate

and so you seeps into all my senses.

In hypnogogic wonderment violins play pizzicato

while melded bones begin to twang and thrum

in a pentatonic rhythmic flourish

of perfect pitch and tone.

A rhapsody of heavenly harmonics moves

thigh, leg and groin to butt, wrapped

round and round like Tutankahmen

while listening to a choir of doves

coo-coo-cooing in a soothing refrain.

Whatever must be done will soon be taken

care of, but not on Sunday morning.

Milton P. Ehrlich