Cold and wet as a slattern's kiss
              the darkened streets contrived a mist
              it touched my lily cheeks so rare
              (and left a certain dampness there)
              that later caused an irritation
              leading to this remonstration:

              Go not into the dead of night
              without a handy rag in sight
              to wipe away the fog of gloom
              or redness on your butt shall bloom
              and thy lament shall be mine own
              (endeth, here, my humble pome).

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