don't preach, papa

papa, don't preach
poems are
for catching the scent of a rose
and the iodine smell of waves
crashing into ancient rocks
on a crisp spring morning.

don't preach, papa,
poems are
for the brush of lips
sending tingles to your toes
and a shy look
from behind a bar room pint
taking your breath away

don't preach, please
poems are
for forbidden music
and the steady drumbeat
of seductive notes
melting your insides

don't preach, papa
I already know
it's wrong