His Words Are Apt To Do Her Acrobats Poem by Mark Heathcote

His words are apt to do her acrobats
His words are apt to do handstands
And brush away her stinging nettles
Then she's reaching for her star
And wrestles adjacent his smiles.

He winks as she, wiles
She thinks, isn't he charming.
The midges are dancing; they sense there's going-
To be a ménage à trois, a threesome, mingling.

But when he climbs and walks her tightrope
She gives him the shake-down quite flatly
But when he's down heartened, weeping acrobats.
Its then she in turn gently catches him
In her non-existent all-embracing safety net.

So now he's winking again as again she, wiles
Again she thinks, isn't he charming.
And all the midges are dancing; they sense there's going-
To be a ménage à trois, a threesome, mingling.