WRAP IT IN THE STARS AND STRIPES

For him I shall treasure my conch shell,
yes, only for him.
In Jesus's name I shall save it
intact to the brim.
God wants me to give it once only
to one I shall win
but Satan for ever and ever
in gluttonous sin.
An act Christ accepts when uxorial,
peccatum est when
your men are like sands of the desert
and hot as Cayenne.

At church I'll chew gum for my Jesus
and nuzzle my man;
he'll wait by the shores of my ocean,
my poor Caliban,
for a tide to reveal a small conch shell
this year or the next,
or sometime, as pledged to the patient
in Biblical text.
Our minister asks us to hammer
pop music cassettes;
we bring them with Puritan fervour
and settle our debts.
How cute are his feet on the mountains,
my lovable mate.
Let him stay with the chamois for now, though:
true lovers can wait.
As his hormones attain to new levels
I'll ask him to bang
the ribboning tapes of pop music
while angels harangue
the baser instinctual fevers.
Yes, only for him.
In Jesus's name I shall save it
intact to the brim.