Title: Waxing Lyrical
My crimson table's a feather-soft tent,
Where hours of flow'ry lovemaking are spent,
Surrounding myself with golden clustered
Ovarian fruits that leave me flustered.
I have no watch, so I watch the sky,
And the shadows shifting low to high,
And when I must return to my waxy comb,
'Tis Her Highness Herself that welcomes me home.