I was writing a poem when five little men <br />came over to see me at quarter to ten. <br />A cute little bird, irresistible bait, <br />tagged along and was tired, well you see it was late. <br /> <br />So I draped her in covers and I sent the men home <br />and she smiled and said, darling bring the Barbasol foam. <br />And the night turned to labour as I shaved her quite close <br />with my straight-razor saber, in her home-birthing pose. <br /> <br />I have always been steady with my hands and my mind <br />but the fragrance turned heady and I dared not unwind. <br />Then she asked me, a stranger, would the eating of eggs <br />through cholesterol's danger, ruin the skin on her legs. <br /> <br />I must say undertaking this procedure in bed <br />who could look at the stompers, in politeness, instead? ! <br />And I soon had a vision, where Mount Pubis was shaved <br />but I ran out of foam then and her jungle was saved. <br /> <br />So you see what can come when intentions are good <br />I was sipping dark rum and I thought that I could <br />make a poem to please you, but the time just ran out, <br />and today I can't write, as my thumb has the gout.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-was-going-to/
