By Paul E. Schindler, Jr.
When your hand’s upon my knee,
There’s no place else I’d rather be.
I saw it first as we ate out,
But I am sure without a doubt,
It doesn’t matter where or when,
Your touch will thrill me once again.
I know because of what you’ve said,
You think it’s odd, perhaps ill-bred.
You find my love a melodrama,
You think it better aimed at Amma.
You think that I should love a saint,
Which you’ve said you surely ain’t.
I hear you, but I can’t agree;
What I feel, I plainly see.
Your touch on knee or hand or thigh,
Always makes me heave a sigh.
I fear the man to whom you’re hitched,
Can’t help but being so bewitched.
Please keep touching me, my dear,
As that act brings you quite near.
You know the ode that I have written,
To demonstrate how deep I’m smitten:
Every single thing I do,
Is better, proximate to you.