Poetic Brilliance

Not a sound was made, but the ottoman shook,
And my darling looked awfully worried
As round her fair body a firm hold I took,
And John Thomas we silently buried.

We buried him deeply in dead of the night,
The tails of our nightshirts upturning,
With squeals of rapture and fits of delight
While the nightlights were so dimly burning.

Few and short were the sighs we gave,
Though we oftentimes groaned as in sorrow,
As with each joyous stroke in rapture we’d rave
With scarcely a thought for tomorrow.

When John Thomas came out of his warm, narrow bed
As droopy as any sad willow,
How lowly hung down his now lifeless head;
How gladly he’d rest on his pillow!