It's your face
a comfortable place
that doesn't beg questions
of needing my space
and who can argue
better than you do?
Oh, you're hotter than the Virgin Mary
especially when you're quite contrary
And you'll rip this poem apart,
asking, "What in hell? You call this art?"
It's not meant to invoke some ire
Can't a fellow write when tired?
That playful wink, that lovely laugh
you say, whatever, just put giraffe
You do your thing...
I'm gonna nap
just put your feet
up on my lap
Because while I'm sitting here catching zen,
I know you'll read this poem again.