I'LL KEEP YOUR CLOTHES

At first when we were dating
You would bring a rose
And as a ritual of mating
Leave behind some clothes

It seemed a cute formality
it put me in love's throws
It had a wondrous quality
"Yeah!  I'll keep your clothes."

You'd leave sexy underwear
The type that made you strut and pose
You'd toss them in my corner chair
I teased, "I'll keep your clothes"

Then there came some rainy washes
and some days of heavy snows
You'd leave raincoats and galoshes
I said, "Sure.  I'll keep your clothes"

Add T-shirts with a beer slogan
or an alien head that glows
or a samurai from Shogun
I said, "OK...I'll keep your clothes"

I left you little notes
"Hey, my closet overflows"
"I've boxed up all my coats!"
But, still, I keep your clothes

One day you showed up with a wagon
And a couple of cheap ho's
You said, "Baby, I'm baggin'"
I said, "Oh, yeah?  I'll keep your 
clothes"

You really blew your stack
You said, "Hey!  This really blows!
What are you?  On crack?"
I just said, "I'll keep your clothes"

You cried, "What am I to wear?"
I said, "Who cares?  Who knows?
You've been a sorry ass affair.
At least I'll keep your clothes"

The underwear so fine
I'll hold for other joes
The jeans that are now mine
They'll fit.  I'll keep your clothes.

The shirts that look like bags
The socks with ripped up toes
I'll use them up as rags
What fun to keep your clothes!

So, be nice to your ex-girlfriends
Watch where you put your nose
And be kind when the love ends
Or else, we'll keep your clothes

From the book:  THE LOVE POEMS OF THE 
FEMINIST FROM THE DARKSIDE by Fembah
Copyright 2000

A golfer named Sandy MacFarr 
               Went to bed with a Hollywood star 
                    When he first saw her gash he 
                    Cried, "Quick, goot muh mashie! 
               Uh thunk uh c'n muk it in par." 

There was an old fellow named Rapp 
            Who had a job all considered a snap. 
                In the insane asylum 
                He'd grade cunts and file 'em, 
            And bi-weekly he'd rub up their nap

There was a young lady of Maine
Who declared she'd a man on her brain.
But you knew from the view
Of her waist as it grew
It was not on her brain that he'd lain.

A young lady from South Carolina 
               Placed fiddle strings 'cross her vagina. 
                    What, with proper sized cocks, 
                    Once was sex, became Bach's 
               Tocatta and Fugue in D Minor.