Allan's Lost Sex Poem

Late at night, he didn't look a Tweed Heads man, a likely crook climbed up the downpipe with his legs and stole the poem about sex. He took the page and made a flyer and climbed some more to get still higher, then launched the thing into the breeze helped on its way by a good sneeze. The poem landed in the street where it was trampled by two feet, an aging teacher from the school who'd visited the local pool, picked up the paper as he was obsessed with rules and private laws, unfolded it and took it back to his own house, just down the track. There, by the light of a small fire he read those words of sheer desire. His maid, a lady from the town had left his favourite dressing gown right near the mantlepiece, well-pressed, she'd cleaned and straightened out his nest, as she was hired (and well paid) , she was a skilled and punctual maid. The teacher read the poem twice, went to the kitchen for some ice to ascertain that his small fellow who had been passive and quite mellow, for decades now since she had packed and then performed Houdini's Act...... He never missed her touch and scent but this was a predicament. The words from Allan's poem drifted through convolutions and then lifted his spirits, well...his private being which is, you knew it, used for peeing. 'Well, what the bloomin' hell is this? Something that I would never miss so suddenly came back to haunt and in a real way would taunt a middle aged, god-fearing man', he figured he would make a plan. The telephone, a great invention would expedite his clear intention. And so, he asked her to stop by she did and never did ask why. The story ends, well...I'm afraid that poetry, that night got laid.