I Am The Tongue and Not Lockjaw

I am the tongue behind your wobbly knees…
ashes of decay that burns within your obsession,
hungering for meat of Friday with no time for “I
Love Lucy.” In for a penny, listening to you sigh
like a Bambi on fire as the tongue tickles your
little titmouse, hiding a cherry, then bleeding a
sweet cognac as the barometer of your cunt warns
of monsoon, soon to be a tsunami and not lockjaw