This is a poem I wrote to the woman I went on the date with last weekend. I left it on the windshield of her car while it was parked at her apartment. (Note to my Parole Officer: Yes, I was at least 500 ft. from her.)
To my lady, soft and sweet
Whom at putt-putt I did beat.
But whom I would certainly let win
If we were to play again.
For the night in jail did me much pain
Innocence left bruised and stained
By my cell mate, who I named Stitch,
(and who named me his prison bitch.)
Still, my love for you, it did not fade,
Even after all the prison love I made.
It was just sex-meant not a thing.
It’s only you for whom my heart sings.
And sing it does loud and clear,
Hoping in vain for you to hear.
I’m screaming, I’m screaming
the lights of your nieghbors beaming.
But your window is still left dark,
Much like the window to my heart.
How I long to touch your thigh,
Without the risk of trauma to my eye.
I often dream of a room dimily lit,
In which we would swap our spit.
And you might then lick my face,
While I strip down to thongs of lace.
Ok, so I wear women’s underwear,
It really compliments my derriere.
Through back hair, your fingers run.
Two bodies together as one.
Shake my soft, gentle rolls of fat,
While in pleasure, I purr like a cat.
I wish to kiss your plump red lips,
I wish you would pull out your whip,
Then punish this bad, naughty boy,
And make me your personal sex toy.
Dress me in a leather suit fit for a gimp,
And tell me you’re my only pimp.
Tie tight my limbs to the four post bed.
Drip hot wax on top my head.
Laugh incessencetly at my screams.
This, my Love, is my dream.
Instead, I wait in lonely desperation,
For some type of explanation,
Of my recent retrogradation
From the summit of my aspiration.
That is to be your one and only,
A foil to this “being lonely”.
Please, my love I need your help.
So I don’t just make love to myself.
Though you’ve put on some pounds,
I like my women plump and round.
Though your feet are bigger than mine,
I think your big toe is quite divine.
Yes, your thighs could feed an army,
I think the dimples are quite charming.
Did I mention cottage cheese is my fav,
Please, please, let me be your slave.
My breasts may be larger than yours,
And my lips not surrounded by sores.
Big boobs do nothing for me,
and of course that blister is not an STD.
My love, drop the restraining order,
500 feet is far too far.
Let me be your calling courter.
So I can get closer than just your car.
If you’re wondering, my eye is fine.
Nothing a raw steak couldn’t cure.
So let me know that you are mine.
And you will know that I am yours.
My broken heart can be healed,
more than I can say for my putter.
So let’s send our love to be sealed,
By the tender drip of melted butter.
My love, my love, sweet as honey.
Whatever your cost – I’ve got money.