Your lips have sweetened first
Now, they are ripe for the picking
Harvest has come; the clock is ticking
You should know, I must reap from thirst
Like the cyclical seasons of life
Your blossoming is at its peak
The sun burns inside as I speak
I must cut off the stem with a knife
It’s your flavor I long to taste
The fruit harvest of your luscious garden
If I’m speaking too blunt, ‘beg your pardon
I must not let your lips go to waste