Sonnet 7, Tiny Head

Thy tiny head, concealed in safe a place,
However small, still likes to be discovered.
Disclosed, it sticks itself with lust apace
Through its protecting lips. Uncovered

It longs for being caressed once again!
What sense does lead it, having only blood
Inside, but not the slightest bit of brain?
What causes it to blossom like a bud?

It pleads entreatingly hard on its own
For tender petting with the tongue of me.
Convulsively Thou toss about and groan
With quiv´ring voice the most hot-tempered plea:

“My tiny head be Thine! Mine be Thy tongue!“
A lovlier song of love was never sung.