There once was a gal named Patricia
To touch her ass-ets I wisha-ed
She gave me a kick
In my old bailiwick
And called for the local militia
I had a phonograph and it did stick
Just at the arrival of old St. Nick
He declared it uncouth
And replaced with Bluetooth
Then asserted “This is my bailiwick!”
There's an echo in this vast sphere
I love how your voice
Grounds me here
I wake in a sweat and you are a cool breeze
We are iambic saline
Locked in a rhythm preserved
I've known flesh
Bridled by self command
And I have witnessed
The chill of dismissal
You are solar flares
In ecliptic nights
A momentary blindness
That thrills with sight
There once was a gal named Patricia
To touch her ass-ets I wisha-ed
She gave me a kick
In my old bailiwick
And called for the local militia
© Jack Ellison 2015
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