I wish that I had wrists to spare
and hands with which to slit,
For when I bask beneath the sun,
I don’t feel warmed a bit.
So in my failed, yet desperate search
for heat on which to feed
I came upon a warm young lass,
bare ankles in the weeds.
And as I crawled between her toes,
she let out such a scream,
And chucked me, whipping through the air,
into the nearest stream.
And as I struggled to get out,
I noticed something strange:
A fisherman with open toes;
His feet were right in range.