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.

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