Poem Choose to Misbehave
Choose to Misbehave As I strut downtown embracing the lunch My fuchsia panties start to bunch I step wider to try to avoid The pinkish lace that rubs on my rhoid The itch is there, damn! And I can't scratch Can't rub my finger-tips on my snatch The bag is bulky, needs both my hands I curse myself for buying mail-order brands I wiggle my buns, rotate my hips Hoping the itch will ease just a bit But instead the durn itch grows just like the digit That caused these rhoids, that's...