Farmyard Antics 75 Poem by Phil Soar

I strolled into a farmyard
On a whim, one summers day
I met my lover in the barn
We frolicked in the hay
And as we re-arranged ourselves
I noticed several marks
I'm sure that they were not some burns
Created by love's sparks
Our loving isn't frantic
Now that we are old
Probably a cherished waltz
To help us not feel cold
The marks were purely little bites
From ticks or fleas and such
They itched like hell all through the night
Especially around the crotch