I Was Going To

I was writing a poem when five little men came over to see me at quarter to ten. A cute little bird, irresistible bait, tagged along and was tired, well you see it was late. So I draped her in covers and I sent the men home and she smiled and said, darling bring the Barbasol foam. And the night turned to labour as I shaved her quite close with my straight-razor saber, in her home-birthing pose. I have always been steady with my hands and my mind but the fragrance turned heady and I dared not unwind. Then she asked me, a stranger, would the eating of eggs through cholesterol's danger, ruin the skin on her legs. I must say undertaking this procedure in bed who could look at the stompers, in politeness, instead? ! And I soon had a vision, where Mount Pubis was shaved but I ran out of foam then and her jungle was saved. So you see what can come when intentions are good I was sipping dark rum and I thought that I could make a poem to please you, but the time just ran out, and today I can't write, as my thumb has the gout.