Wed, 04/26/2017 - 18:14 -- DeBrock

Orange peels roasting on the hearth,

My brown feet, becoming one with the earth,

It slithers up my ankles and around my waist,

The beautiful woman, the touch, the taste.


Her snowy skin, cold as hell,

Her zealous hair, remembered well,

Wrapped ‘round my finger, for a spell,

Petit enfant, le charpentier.


Le charpentier, Le charpentier

To hold you close, to hold you dear,

To see you bare, to bring you near,

Mon ours miel, Le charpentier.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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