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 damsel who lives at the Springs 
               Had her maidenhead ripped into strings 
                    By a hideous Kurd, 
                    And now, she averred, 
               "When the wind blows through it, it sings." 

There was a young girl named Maxine 
            Who found a new use for the bean. 
                As a vaginal bearing 
                She found it long-wearing, 
            And it varied her fucking routine.

               There was a young man of St. Giles 
               Who'd walked thousands and thousands of miles, 
                    From the Cape of Good Hope, 
                    Just to bugger the Pope, 
               But he couldn't---the pontiff had piles. 

There was a young lady of fashion 
            Who had oodles and oodles of passion. 
                To her lover she said, 
                As they climbed into bed, 
            "Here's one thing the bastards can't ration!"