An Intimate Itch
A certain itch it’s like no other,
descending as Vesuvious burning
tyre, a nuee ardente of fire
Manouver all you will, to no
sweet avail; it’s your hand
that’s needed, no matter what
audience papers the house
Yes, a magazine or folded coat
can often shield the work required,
but please, no sighs or muted
cries desired
Then good performance must
transpire, to shift the well-placed
hand from view
And when the fire is doused, as such,
and all one’s thoughts removed from
crotch
Reflect on how you saved the day,
with folded coat on nuts in May
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