If a poem’s not a striptease,
It’s just a dry hump.
Please please
me, my sweet sweet!
Shake your rump!
If a poem is a striptease,
we’ll feel the breeze
as we hunt the Heffalump,
Piglet and I—aiming to please
ourselves alone. Hear the trees
in this hundred-acre dump
shaking so’s to tease
our tender soles,
footin’ by the old mill pump.
It’s only about pleasing
and especially ears—with songs
strutting tuneful
Pretty please!
