Diddling Stick

Tucked away below the pews, 
a moist earth, clump of dirt, 
twelve steps beneath the apse, 
lie my bones and what's left 
of the diddling stick.

Old bones don't get very much rotten
when my muse wiggles her hips, 
gyrating atop my pine box 
with green loam on her ass, 
it aint curse, it's just verse.

In the dogs days of summer,
her lips do a hummer-do
on my diddling stick, 
before my flesh peels, 
twelve steps beneath the apse.