by PattRose
Warning: Silly and crazy poetry. Try rhyming with only one word.
What is wrong with me, I can't get my mind off of sex?
And here comes Jim, walking buy with his gorgeous pecks.
Now he turns around and asks me if I've seen his new checks.
As he puts his newly ironed shirt on, his muscles he does flex.
I'm falling apart, I'm telling you, belonging with all the other wrecks.
I'm looking at him now and wondering if he thinks about our necks.
I better start dinner; I think we'll have something warm, like Mex.
I could go put on my boots while I cook and he could call me Tex.
I glance at his arm and see spots and realize they are his frecks.
I go over to my desk and start to look through my index.
Jim says, "Hey tonight is the marathon of all the different Treks.
I am wondering what the hell is wrong; stop thinking of sex.
It all began when I started watching that stupid show, Lexx.
I wish I could think of somehow that we could see who collects.
You never are quite certain, what a person expects.
The end, thankfully.
Suggested by Lisa, but I take full responsibility for the silliness.
