when the hot smokey air is filled with the rolling tones of ivory keys the pianoman smiles and plays on he weaves a net to catch your ear the mood is right to grab her hips and dance all through the night high-strung howling of a hungry sax tears deep into your secret heart mouth open in passon's velvet grip moaning to those plaintive wails you are lost, transfixed on the beat bound to hungers unspoken till now circling the room like cats on the prowl drawn to the quiet dark secluded corner where none can see, none but you hot roving hands alive under her skirt arched back pressed to the shadowed wall filled deep you grind out the music of desire
W. I. Boucher March 13, 2003