Ode To My Masseuse

(Nathan got me a spa day for Christmas and I finally got to use it. In celebration I wrote this little ditty.)

Oh, my masseuse.

Leann.

How do I count the ways?

Under cover of a dimly lit room

and an expertly tucked sheet,

You see the wide expanse of my broad, white, buttocks

not as a dimpled wasteland

But as a canvass on which to ply your art.

Baste me like a

Christmas Goose

And bake me for 60 minutes

Under the dulcet tones of

a pan pipe accompanied by crashing waves.

Make me forget that I am in a

J.C. Pennys.

Send me instead to Sweden, Shiatsu-land, warm towel-land

And let me die

as greasy as a pig in a rodeo.

Thank-you Nathan!