Here's an e.e. cummings poem which is (sort of) on this subject. Read to the end.


the boys i mean are not refined

   the boys i mean are not refined
   they go with girls who buck and bite
   they do not give a fuck for luck
   they hump them thirteen times a night

   one hangs a hat upon her tit
   one carves a cross on her behind
   they do not give a shit for wit
   the boys i mean are not refined

   they come with girls who bite and buck
   who cannot read and cannot write
   who laugh like they would fall apart
   and masturbate with dynamite

   the boys i mean are not refined
   they cannot chat of that and this
   they do not give a fart for art
   they kill like you would take a piss

   they speak whatever's on their mind
   they do whatever's in their pants
   the boys i mean are not refined
   they shake the mountains when they dance


it may not always be so; and i say

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another's,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
   
if this should be,i say if this should be-
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

        
[somewhere i have never travelled]


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands