Child of the tropic sun, my hot,
Dark, Colombian darling. Light
Of my life. I'd friends. They say I went to pot--
You made me shake and keep me up at night--
But do I care? Of course not! My heart pounds
(The last of you lingers) as I smell the heady,
Delicious scent of those delightful mounds
Of grounds . . . soft gurgling sounds . . . at last, you're ready.
"You taste so good," I whisper. You don't answer,
My coy dear. Together, silently,
My darling, we commune; our bittersweet romance
Is something they don't understand. You see,
You wait for me each morning in the kitchen.
(Not like my wife. Good riddance!) Babe, you're bitchen.