Buttermilk

A Southern woman is of special ilk; 

She moves so fluidly - like living silk,

Her honey coated drawl -- like buttermilk.

Whatever lay before me I would bilk;

To drink her in, like purest, coldest milk;

But tell her? I would suffer bruise and wilk.

Never should she be undignified,

Though not a mark of vanity nor pride;

She is of tender countenance, and shied

Away from that which hurts her deep inside,

While outwardly, her feelings thus denied,

Her patience and composure bona fide. 

So very coy, with just a hint of smirk

To tell me my persistence will not work;

With swaying hips she knows drive me berzerk,

Behind her eyes a playful, smiling perk,

While in her teeth, her bottom lip doth lurk,

Knowing her attentions I'll not shirk.

As lovely as she is, I understand

The need for her to feel a love uncanned;

Worthy of a love not bored or bland, 

One mustn't try to bend her to command, 

Nor test how much abuse she can withstand;

For she's worthy of something truly grand.

And so I say to her: keep up your smile, 

And maybe we can sit her for a while.

Ignore our duties in that mountainous pile, 

Perhaps in our short time I may beguile -- 

Expound on how sublime your grace and style --

And perhaps your day will be worthwhile.

----

 © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.