coolwomen

Come, Madman, come! Your words your sense defy:
Your little labor bear lest labor I!
Think you your Angel so eas'ly enticed
To your soft alter to be sacrificed?
The temple of thy bed is a temptation
That would yeild us joy and me vexation,
For to those clothes you beg me cast aside
I must return, and there my passions hide
With breasts so full and firm and round and white
Pushed in and up and out by bodice tight,
And, slender as a floral stem, my waist
Needs suffocating corset's strong embrace.
Should we this night let passion overflow,
Within this gown I have no room to grow,
And you'll have found yourself more pressing needs
Having now your battle sword appeased.
Your foe in sight, you're standing, but recall
That after battle wounded men do fall,
And on sweet battlefield by morning light
There lie they weak and quite unfit for fight;
Yet she (though she more like a Victor be)
Is labled spoiled, a spoil granted to thee.
          You lead and plead; indeed you shall have pled
          To no avail: I'll not go to your bed.
          So clothe yourself, you silly, naked man,
          And salvage now what dignity you can!

(I wrote this poem in answer to a poem by John Donne called "To His Mistress, Going to Bed." He was so full of himself; so certain that she would just fall into bed with him; that I thought he needed to be knocked down a peg or two. What's a couple of centuries, anyhow?)