She kept her stockings on
And soon was gone.
Now I write a rhyme
About the first time.

In a bedsit
By a canal
My first fall
Was just banal.

Shal I write
Of other nights?
Of fake flirts in skirts,
And the odd passing delight?

No, I shall pass
Over the mirrored glass
Where many a stranger does comb
Her hair, ere leaving me alone.