If itches were wishes I’ve had quite a few,
though I have not much wealth accrued,
nor mountains surmounted nor oceans slewn
by slick-spitting sloops or luxury cruise;
I cannot demand nobility as monarchs do,
because the butter flies better with natural dues
outisde of the chatter of sharpshooting clues
of a way to power in Machiavellian purlieu.
So I consider the mates that itches produce:
the lissome, blonde, utterly can-do,
or fiery, piercing, female hoodoo.
I know neither would please, like fantasies flew
fast over flames of the nest cuckoo.
If itches made wishes I’d have quite a few,
though none, perhaps, as plentiful as you.