whistle, steam

shade, shadow

late night TV

drenched woman, roused man,
she comes speeding up a hill,
he stands, macho style,
right on cue, lightning
strikes, genuinely afraid,
they embrace for dear life

the music then oozingly hums,
a song about birds and bees,
the lovers now set out,
to find a hay shed for their
cravings, an old man omnipresent
to help them, giving away
his deserted home keys

there is always a limit
they sustain, a grope,
a kiss, a pinch, a touch,
her arousal exaggerated,
his malnourished wolf gaze,
cut to the blinding sun rays,
on the heroine's pimpled face

for, whatever passed between
the night and dawn
has been deemed unfit,
for alas, dear perverts,
the censors, have run
their scissors through it