A Rainy Friday Immersion into Doolittle

Friday’s fighting like hell,
to create heraldry crest like no other.
But the rain is hot,
hot honey on those lips.
My tongue is a ground
to air missile,
trying to find a target amongst
those molars.
What is a boy suppose to
do, when those hips shake
so well. The music
is the bell,
that Pavlov held.
Out comes the hooded Russian,
in the puring rain.
The Kremlin will fall, to those
damn hips.