In private I decry the willow wand;
the slender, for my purposes, won’t serve.
No, sylphs are not for satyrs who demand
a strumpet with reserves, not mere reserve.
Something there is, in me, which craves the curve
voluptuous, unbridled, unrestrained
in scale. (Plus-size proportion equals verve,
determining what heights may be attained.)
From conquering an isle, what’s to be gained?
No isthmus has me itching to explore.
Give me an Asia to be Tamburlained,
and let me spend a lifetime saddle-sore.
My mental mistress is a continent for sure:
supine, and yet superlatively dominant. More! More!