Tender
by William the Bloody
She favors the young and tender;
Seeks them out on battered streets of anguish,
Passing up the wrinkled and the worn.
No hardened vein of intuition can call her out.
Her ears prick at the quicker beat,
And she gathers nightly.
So let them free oh, town of London fair,
To roam the foggy streets alone,
For she shall have her fill.
My plum shall surely return to me
With eyes a glow and youths radiant smile,
Swaying to unheard melodies.
"I am young and tender, still,"
I'll call out to her in hopeful adoration.
Hearing, she shall come before me.
We'll roll and float upon her bed of ease;
The night's fine take appeasing her,
And rest in peace we shall.
When sunset down has called to us,
Arise and sighing, we animate
To seek the tender among you once again.
This poem is included in one of my stories, Soul Survivor, that I can not post here due to it's nc-17 rating. If you are 18 or older you can find the link to the full story in my profile.
