Friday Night’s Home Run

By: Fee

In the stillness of a Friday night

Grade twelve math’s just a memory

Red dashboard light not too bright

For their passionate itinerary

Eight-track tapes sing Beatle songs

In his cherry sixty nine Chevrolet

One tongue kiss leads to first base

Her timid little whispers says okay

Her young breasts firm and tender

Trembling fingers roughly grope

Nipples popping like little cherries

In my mind give me such hope

Another sip of lemon gin and 7Up

Now my hands are everywhere

First base goes down like a hurricane

Now it’s getting mighty hot in here

Jeans bunched around our knees

Breathing gasps between my groans

I’m so close to stealing third base

As Miss Hotstuff moans and moans

I’m just about to round that base

And the home plate of love’s insight

When a pounding on my window

Is punctuated by a blinding light

“Zip it up son your games is over”

said the policeman looking in,

“This game is called for all the fathers

Whose little girls are wooed to sin…”