I do appreciate,
The treasured joy reserved for just our ilk,
Almost considered fate,
Or p'haps a calling, futilely ignored,
Resting deep in our hearts,
Male or female, outside of race bound'ries,
Religion aside, something close to art,
The hidden hand hovering o'er a thigh,
Met with a harried cry,
"If you don't stop that I'm telling mother!"
"But dear mom, 'tis not I."
Yet devious, as well,
A childhood of practicing joy in pain,
A wonder more of us aren't in jail.