Late at night, he didn't look
a Tweed Heads man, a likely crook
climbed up the downpipe with his legs
and stole the poem about sex.
He took the page and made a flyer
and climbed some more to get still higher,
then launched the thing into the breeze
helped on its way by a good sneeze.
The poem landed in the street
where it was trampled by two feet,
an aging teacher from the school
who'd visited the local pool,
picked up the paper as he was
obsessed with rules and private laws,
unfolded it and took it back
to his own house, just down the track.
There, by the light of a small fire
he read those words of sheer desire.
His maid, a lady from the town
had left his favourite dressing gown
right near the mantlepiece, well-pressed,
she'd cleaned and straightened out his nest,
as she was hired (and well paid) ,
she was a skilled and punctual maid.
The teacher read the poem twice,
went to the kitchen for some ice
to ascertain that his small fellow
who had been passive and quite mellow,
for decades now since she had packed
and then performed Houdini's Act......
He never missed her touch and scent
but this was a predicament.
The words from Allan's poem drifted
through convolutions and then lifted
his spirits, well...his private being
which is, you knew it, used for peeing.
'Well, what the bloomin' hell is this?
Something that I would never miss
so suddenly came back to haunt
and in a real way would taunt
a middle aged, god-fearing man',
he figured he would make a plan.
The telephone, a great invention
would expedite his clear intention.
And so, he asked her to stop by
she did and never did ask why.
The story ends, well...I'm afraid
that poetry, that night got laid.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.