Twelve

Oh those things of splendor,
That hold my lover's innards in,
That wrap around her lovely body,
Placed beneath the skin.

Guardians of that precious heart that,
That I hold so dear;
And through them I hear her heart beat,
When I hold her near.

Those perfect ivory rods rise and fall,
With her flowing, child-like laughter,
As I close my softened eyes,
And dream of her and I in the hereafter.

How she treats me oh so tender,
With those lovely things of splendor!

(Note:  Just as a disclaimer, this poem is based on an inside-joke.  I'm really not that crazy in the head . . . yet.)