You soft, brown angel-
Smelling a bit like an old shoe,
Cuddled tight against my foot,
Making sure I can't sneak off,
Can't leave your noble side,
Unless you know at the precise microsecond
That I am not going to be sitting here
In front of my computer
At my laundry room desk.
Oh no. That is never permitted,
Because when I leave your majestic presence,
You follow me, licking my leg tenderly,
And I feel like a peasant kissed by my queen.