We lay within a darkened room, our night light only a crescent moon,
My dew upon her silvered wheat, our stolen moment, watermelon sweet.
Her breath is soft as she sleeps, I pray the Lord my heart she'll keep.

The morning sun soon wakens me, a bright and blinding reveille,
She stirs beneath pastel sheets, stretches arms, 'n yawns so sweet.
Her morning smile's a sunny charm as she cuddles within my arms.

Widowed by the Scythe of Time, decades past the Age of Prime,
Wrinkled bodies, sagging parts, clothe the passion within our hearts,
Our stolen moments are monuments, of climaxes and compliments.

The forever young will never know passions that consume 60-year-olds.
Discovered among silvered wheat, ripened watermelon is always sweet.