My mouth waters for the bleu Shropshire
And the taste of your skin on my tongue
As it traces delicate contours
Beneath your chin
Around your breast
Leaving long wet trails
Across your belly
Until it tangles in the dark thatch
That guards your moist secret.

Dubious pears
Pumpernickled to perfection
Could not compare
Nor could the Montelpulchiano
Distract my libido
From the sharp bite
Of the cranberry preserve
And my teeth
On that delicate flesh of your inner thigh.

Shropshire Blues
Steve Roberts,
January 2006