Cold and wet as a slattern's kiss
              the darkened streets contrived a mist
              it touched my lily cheeks so rare
              (and left a certain dampness there)
              that later caused an irritation
              leading to this remonstration:

              Go not into the dead of night
              without a handy rag in sight
              to wipe away the fog of gloom
              or redness on your butt shall bloom
              and thy lament shall be mine own
              (endeth, here, my humble pome).

back to the Buttpage