Eyes fluttering shut, he leans into the touch and breathes out slow and steady before speaking gently, "Ah, honey is on my tongue, and I saw you as I passed last night, framed in a sky of gold; through the sun's fast paling light, you were my lord of old."

Which is to say, he doesn't write poetry to be shared, but he is well versed in the classics.

There's another sound, almost a whine of impatience as he kisses, then licks at the head of his prick.