Lips of clay
Kisses hundred ecstasies
I have always relied
on thy munificence;
Under those bower of roses
I trespass your beauty hideout
And kindle fire of my heart
with naught, but you
Taste of butter
Churn hundred buttermilk
I have always relied
on thy method and skill;
Under maundering of drunken reveler
I deftly turn it to and fro
Spilling secret
Into the hands of cup-bearer
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