The treble time for life in throngs
To animate from slumber long,
Of frost and gloom, to softer state,
And leave the land a lively tomb,
Makes each of us a needy mate
Until solsticial noon.

Come March, the month by rain sustained,
When sex itself is uncontained,
Your fruits a-heap in blooms of purse,
Your peaches moist, too pale to reap,
Your vines, and yes, Your men too versed
To inhibition keep.

Come June, the month by sun sustained,
When heat defects desire claimed,
Your sex well had, your peaches plucked,
Your moisture lapped by every lad,
Your passions past, your nipples sucked,
Your dull appeal a fad:

I shall have my cool, my dove,
For I shall have my Love.

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