to pull the sheets
up to my chin
and count those
cuddly little lambs.
Back in the days
when I was young,
a bachelor sought
now and then
by some, for fun
or weekend company.
I slept alone
except for rare occasions,
and I then was known
both to my shrink
and to my aging Mum,
for counting until dawn,
the numbers grew
soon reached infinity.
All this changed drastically,
she placed her French valise
next to the single bed
and dropped her things,
until she stood,
agent provocateur,
so close I smelled
her pubic hair.
Twas the intent I think
and we got hitched,
her dress was cut
by giant scissors
so it seemed,
a decolleté of sorts,
well those dimensions
scared the minister
into a dozen stumbles,
and he stuttered saying
‘hold your peace’.
They did of course,
I do raise pitbull dogs
and this bestows
a measure of respect
in the community.
Now, what I came to say
is that I never count
or even think of sheep,
no, nevermore,
she wraps her arms
around my waist
as would a lady in distress
on the Titanic as she sinks,
tis not because of LOVE,
she told me, when I asked,
she has a phobia of sorts,
’bout falling out of bed.
That’s why she wraps her arms
and smothers me
with twins size 38 Big C
entangles legs with varicosities,
and shoves her pubic bone
into my little guy with force
comparable to Navarone
and in the morning she
demands to get the bone.