I saw the girl walk though the door
and take off one wool mitten.
She dropped it on the kitchen floor,
‘twas just as I had written.

And then she took the other off,
and threw it on a chair.
I am afraid that you might scoff,
and I don’t mean to scare.

But seems that there must be a curse
for all my poems come true,
and all the people in my verse
do as I wrote they’d do.

And I had written that this gal,
would pour a cup of tea,
and introduce herself as Sal,
and pour some tea for me.

Then in my poem this pretty miss,
would sit upon my lap,
and close her eyes and plant a kiss
and say, “Let’s take a nap.”

She did the things as in my verse,
exact and without fail,
as though a play she did rehearse
right down to each detail.

Describing how she’d take off cloths,
I used the words ‘strip show,’
and took four lines on pantyhose,
which came down nice and slow.

And there she stood this time for real,
my fantasy come true,
My poem described how she would feel
And what we both would do.

‘Twas easy to recall the acts,
that I had carefully written,
and in my poem she would relax,
and purr just like a kitten.

As in my writing I then watched
this woman’s sensual charm,
then reached across the bed and touched
her gently on the arm.

And in my tale she’d then be mine,
but much to my surprise
what happened was not in my rhyme –
she closed her eyes and thighs.

“You move too fast,” she said to me,
“Let’s sleep, it’s getting late.
I do love sex, as you will see,
but not on our first date.”

And so I picked up pen and pad
and wrote a poem from scratch,
about a dozen dates we had,
and how well we did match.

But in reality she claimed
to really want to sleep,
so in the poem that I now framed
her passion would run deep.

Then as I wrote of her great greed,
she turned to me and said,
“I’m feeling this tremendous need,
let’s just make love instead.”

                    © 2004  Robert W. Birch