Our man-Jack works just one week in a year
And socks don't buy themselves. The sort with toes
And braille barber stripes. We're full of beer
And firm intentions. When a goddess goes

I do admit to watching her, of course.
I grant I have no scruples in the dark.
We never spoke of vows. The realm of tort
Is where we lie, and where we make our mark.

You have the carriage, and the skill to drive,
And every other pagan quality.
So drive on, driver. Keep this thing alive.
There's more to love than tame morality.

The other ninety-nine were child's play.
But this is mine. So give me cause to stay.