Ice Cream ain’t got nothing

On the sweetness and smoothness

Of her skin on my fingers.

Vinegar ain’t got nothing

On the sting in her venom

Lying in wait, beneath a tongue

Usually so sweet.

Sheets of egyptian cotton

Ain’t got nothing,

On the comfort she brings me.

Any other woman

Ain’t got nothing,

On the love I have for her.

Burned too many times

In a flame of her own blood

Heart now singed at edges

But tender at the center.

Medium rare ain’t got nothing

On her perfection gained by fire.

– Vagabond Prophet