`Fire in the Blood'
Last week your orange jockey-cap perplexed The lecturer's attention from his text. This week, red-riding-hood, you came to say Storms in the forest tore your shrubs away. -And now, in sleek black stockings, while my eye Covertly forages your rounded thigh, You speak of Henry James. We pass an hour Questioning Casper's latent sexual power, And, as 1 trace the contours of your knee, You catechise Osmond's' sterility— And mine, too, if you realised. It's a game, The courtesies of lover and his dame Transposed well down and in a minor key. What passions swelled under their drapery James doesn't tell. Flesh that could have been
bate Moves decorously in long underwear. So, black-garbed tutor, willing pupil, we Indulge ourselves in sober colloquy, Bound by decorum. Sometimes our hands may touch
Over a well-marked essay. That's not much, Street-boys do that, and something more beside.
There's nothing that we really want to hide, But when the session's over you will rise, Flame-frocked or sapphire-cloaked under my eyes,
Leaving with downcast look, so not to vex, 'Good day, sir.' And good day to you, Miss X.