Tudor Style House

He stands there 
Completely unattainable to me
Happy and gay
The only one I'll ever love
So I don't have to...

But truth be told
He is not gay
And I am not a lover,
Just rejection phobic

Whiskey Hand

Proletariat moonshiner, lost in scandal’s rock solid breast
Waiting for something lucky to pass your way
Waxing jovial, mixing publican
Bootleggin Tempter

Your eyes dance across lies,
Open tip jar laughing

You make lovers wary, crush tears to ice
And rouse weak mean brave,
Hero to toilers and hustlers alike

But when the crowd erodes
And fluorescent sins rise, making way for broom, mop
It’s your chapped hands and sullen mouth I crave

Against my breasts and thighs