Poem:  Ode to Milkshake

Milkshake, by which tender touch

was guarded from her soul much torn;

the strokeless, the love shorn

loned until the rolling dawn

when the angelic nymph descends

so her trial nocturnal ends. 

The respite from rank despair,

the fleeting hand, now there.

So the soft soil has your care,

so blooms and birds and bright air

take turns to carry you where

naps on laps will never cease,

where every pleading glance will

meet release from yearning;

cries unanswered, ne'er more, 

hear e'er those angels at the door.

Milkshake! Milkshake!  Man will ne'er know

again a puss, who loved him so.