Fob In The Pocket Poem by T Michael Farrell

I can't get the car FOB as we leave the range

won't come out of my pocket, ever so strange

'Let me try' and with that you have a go

Sliding your hand down my pocket ever so slow

We've never stood this close before

Body heat, smell of hair I can't ignore

But Oh my, your breast keeps rubbing against my arm

While deep in my pocket are your hand and forearm

You rummage around trying to make a selection

All the while, giving me an enormous erection

Finally you think you have it, but I have to sob

'Uhh Jill, that's not my FOB! '