Round Robin 8

Brass goblets dribble sour wine
and perfection isn’t always so.
I tipped my hat to the lady
as any gentleman would.

I tell the following tale:

She was a generic baby.
You know: assorted gurgles and coos.
Rumors flew, wafted on rising innuendo;
They say she knew her business.

“Huh! Buncha dam yankees” he muttered,
wiping tobacco juice off his chin.
Her father didn’t believe a word
spoken against her.

“Chocolate ripple fudge” she sighed
She licked her lips with childish pleasure.
Moonlight, like irradiated butterscotch
came from a moon that knew her secrets.

They say some people move to a different beat.
Hers was a bump and grind.
Too many men could attest to this.
Too many wives shied away from her as well.