The scent of a woman, most illusive of delights,
that fragrant anamnesis of passionate nights,
in memory presupposes reoccurring rehearsals...
perfections perpetually, devoid of reversals,
nocturnal heroics, conjunctive declaratives,
cognitive co-mingling, culmination imperatives.
If ever a picture's worth a thousand words,
ten thousand, a fair price, reminiscing afterwards.

Passionate or demure, enchanting her allure...
see the swain of her choice, smitten with no cure,
terminally infested, whose wattle red crested,
openly suggested amorously invested
ideas gone rampant by a whiff unresistant,
the nostrils of the gallant, no more nonchalant,
increasingly flared, triumphantly declared
devotion'er rabbit got snared.

Estrus, the best of us will bring to our knees,
besmitten, immediately, one sniff in the breeze,
head-butting, horns clashing, trumpeting virility,
announcing availability, prowess, ability,
move over elder stags, no place for senility!
Check me out, sweet mama, for size and agility,
so happy to announce, more fervor in an ounce
opposition to trounce, the best about to flounce.

Indifference, unfeigned, right-brained, left-brained,
the battle once gained, its winners are trained
for a while with a smile the madame to beguile,
make money by the pile, and to do it with style,
to the victor, the spoils. Soon, the winner toils,
the serpent uncoils, a seductive pot boils
its hot stew, stay-home brew, the dreaded honey-do
right on cue....scents pursue, sad but true, they got you!

--Don Juan de Feu



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