The Waistland

I wallowed wary as a wit whose turns of phrase aren’t winning

and, losing sleep, had to admit I’d fallen and been sinning

I wiggled wooly as a mammoth, mute but bright of eye

abominators Jesu damneth, wheelchair-bound or spry

I whimpered worthless as a womb unknown by any fetus

My mate I then began to groom. Bad hygiene won’t deplete us

I smoothed her fur. I …