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My
heart is a stolen, sweet scent of sin,
Your perfume the bath that burns in my brain;
I, in this place, in this bed I am in,
Crave that from which conscience tries to
refrain.
Your slow, slender stride is sauntering need,
That pools in my mind, as you cross the floor;
Approaching my side in your gentle greed,
I swim in your swoon, as I beg for more.
My poetry pushes passion on you,
Morality is no match for this make;
Our special suite has a fantasy view,
We fall in love with no room for mistake.
I recite verse--be it right, be it wrong,
You lay in my arms, and sing to my song.
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