When poetry comes calling to you
Never turn your back on it
And don't show that you are cross, either
For it scares her and would send her
Scurrying to the man next to you
Instead,
Let her climb onto your lap
Her knees kneading your thighs
And pearls dropping onto your pants
Until, arching over your body,
She starts to undress
In the meantime, you should, as a rule,
Press her fingers to give her the essential warmth
That turns her Lily white into a brick-red colour
Then,
Your right hand, not knowing what your left hand is
Upto,
Reaches into your pocket
And produces a hanky that when you pull it out
Becomes gigantic and blankets the naked woman
And you bundle her up into a fine bundle
And ****** it into your pocket and standing up from the bench and dusting out your pants, you whistle your way home