Bodice rippers, broken zippers, she fingers in the night.
Dressed in pajamas like the Dali Lama, her imagination takes flight.
She sleeps alone in a comfortable home and says that she's alright.
 
Bottled liquor, broken zippers, he fumbles in the night.
Tony Lamas, Tommy Bahamas, his erection is a sight.
He cums today in a marvelous way; watching black on white.

These lovers two, who never coo, crossed paths one dark night.
Dressed for comfort instead of woo, they avoid the street light.
The thought of tryst occurred but neither spoke a word. It didn’t feel right.

She’s back to her bodice ripper; his erection breaks his zipper.
Almost nude, indulgently rude, they finger a little bit quicker.
They sit alone - each in their home- and wallow in the liquor.

Oh, where is the romantic seed that leads one to breed?
Has it fallen on stony ground?
A call to Aphrodite in a see-through nightie echoes without redound.

Where are the men that made the gods virile, strong, and brave?
Where is today’s Menelaus?
Whose Helen the Fairest left him for that Greek jerk Paris.

Menelaus sailed a thousand ships to retrieve her kiss,
And Achilles, Athena, and Agamemnon
Assisted the Trojan War, choosing which chariots to ride upon.

The gods of Mount Olympus are gone, Titans stand no more,
Replaced by bodice rippers, broken zippers, and the autoerotic bookstore.