I were hand
in hand
upon the golden sand
of a tropical island beach
with Morwena Hogg
and Boris her dog
who hadn't, as yet, mastered speech.
We were kissin'
and cuddlin';
Boris were puddlin'
as often as every five yards.
We stopped for a drink
and with octopus ink
filled in our picture postcards.
We both loved
the tuba,
we learnt how to scuba
and fished from an anchored felucca.
She said she were virgin
and explained how a surgeon
had removed her most recent verucca.
By a calm moonlit
ocean
love's flame were in motion
and stirred in me pink boxer shorts
as we theorized for hours
the pollenation of flowers
and the validity of whiteheads and warts.
On the sand
neath a palm
by a tuna fish farm
I sang her a sweet serenade
-'til the hoot of a steamer
helped break me right femur
in a hole that Boris had made.
