This ecstasy of words is something new
I never knew the passion they could bring
When shared with someone who’s impassioned too
And loves to hear sonnettic words I sing
I guess iambic rhythm turns her on
Or else she feels my words are warm, like skin
But either way, the French would call it bon
La petite mort is started deep within
I need to make a lover of my friend
Our words compel our friendship to remain
The words of love will never have an end
Our wordless sounds will not be sung in vain
I want to make her scream in ecstasy
with passion that my lover feels for me.