Of this thing called love
How many more chores
From the supposed Lord above
It was raining, it was grey
It was another Christmas
The wind was whistling
And I was feeling the cold
Then I saw a photograph
Of you, or someone like you, for
All I could see were your forearms
And your podiatrist's fingernails
As you delicately shampooed
The young orangoutang (who was smiling)
And I thought; yes, this is what love is:
A lifetime
Of the joys of sensation, and touch
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