human imagination roams wild

soaring free atop mundane days

wild ideas coming from nowhere

weird notions, even funnier ways

 

I helplessly fantasise with women

shutting my eyes to imagine bliss

with movie stars and weather girls,

its them I fondle, cuddle and kiss

 

my Ginger boasts assets to die for

she's what any man would desire

yet for all her wondrous charms

she's lacking Rita Hayworth's fire

 

when we get down to brass tacks

and my mind fills with flaming hair

Rita's ruby lips render me a gigolo

endless pins more than I can bear

 

Ginger just shocked me to my roots

confessing she does much the same

but told me not to worry too much

for its her, I'm not the one to blame

 

she's long seen me as Fred Astaire

that balding pate turned on her lust

despite him being defunct for years

those twinkling butchers mere dust

 

so now, when us pair hit the sack

before the off we carefully arrange

who is imagining whom, and how,

conversations admittedly strange

 

tonight, I've gone for Angela Merkel,

Ginger's plumped for Groucho Marx,

we can't wait to pull over the duvet,

shut our eyes and await the sparks!