We'd settled successfully into our rut
where sex is no more than a memory. But
along came this wunderkind, bloody Brian Cox
for whom my wife waits open-mouthed by our Box.
And though, to my mind, he's distinctly androgynous
he reaches her parts that she once found erogenous.
I've tried to persuade her that frisky is risky,
that what once stood tall is now less obelisky:
so, were we to try something so cataclysmnic,
I doubt we could now re-create paroxysmic
and Bangs, Big or Small, in Acacia Villas
as likely as not would exhaust if not kill us.
So please, for the sake of our welfare, Brian Cox,
Keep your thoughts to yourself and your face off our Box.