The preacher, who was dressed in green <br />appeared short-winded, on the scene. <br />He'd had a helping of pink gin <br />which God did not regard as sin. <br />The Devil though had been a guest <br />and drawn a vision of the breast <br />with all its soft and luscious silk <br />the image of sweet human milk. <br />And there, in Aberdeen's own mud <br />she rested, covered by red blood. <br />His pupils widened as he knelt <br />and timid fingers shyly felt <br />beneath the blouse of cotton blues <br />for signs of life and God's own dues. <br />And with a cry of sheer despair <br />he placed his lips into her hair <br />then slid, with loving gentle moves <br />down to those warm familiar grooves. <br />And rested on her nipple's rose <br />his tear-stained cheek and grieving nose. <br />Townspeople soon left them alone <br />their secret pact would not be known.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-irish-lass/
