Pocket Pool

I was adjusting my balls the other day when I caught the eye of a very pretty young lady. When I saw she was heading my way, I figured she was looking for an explanation for my boorish behavior so, in the time it took her to cross the bar room and since I had to explain anyway, I figured I had a free one coming. So I reached into my pants and adjusted my balls again.

"Mmmm," she purred. "There must be something good in there."

"Well..." I extemporized, "I, uh, keep my Congressional Medal of Honor on a ribbon around my waist and occasionally the medal gets tangled up with my other junk."

"I see." she said, looking me straight in the eyes.. "I keep a pot of medal polish in a cave in my pants."

"Mmmm," I purred. "Maybe a little spit and elbow grease, too?"

"Mmmm," she replied in my ear.

When I opened my eyes, she and my wallet were gone.

Which got me to thinking about whose hands I'd rather have in my pockets...



SONNET #43, FROM THE POLISH

With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the height and narrowness and depth
My arm can reach, when feeling for the remote
Under the cushions and end tables of life.
I love thee to the length of my arm
During my quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right (or Left);
I love thee purely, as they turn from prying eyes.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old briefs, and with my childhood's hands.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my tight jeans---I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after dark.

.