And if she plays with me with her shirt off,
We shall construct many Iliads.
And whatever she does or says
We shall spin long yarns out of nothing.
---Sextus Propertius, Ezra Pound.
Lisa with eyes wide
in candle light asked for a poem,
and demanded,
with sweet smiles that he read it
too,
what could he do?
Putting Ezra down, he smiled,
and led her to the tomb...
It was Paris of long robes
who entered her rooms
his fierce eyes disrobing her,
how could she resist his rough fingers,
his cruel lips.
and later when harsh war
darkened the sky
and they were lovers
did she not sigh
when he sheathed his sword
and made his way toward the crowded gates
where men swore
and laughed at his lack of haste?
Thus when the sun caught her hair,
the battered boats upon the shore
the vast plain
the very walls themselves
light with her name,
yet only Paris knew the flame
his hand upon the handle of his blade,
the echo of her lips
upon his fingertips,
the smell of her hair,
the sound of nightwords
in the dawn air
before the raising of the gate,
the blood & fire
of costly day.
Adding your comment:
The most my husband and I ever did was play the happy hooker and the john, or the traffic cop and the speeder 
I am not sure how I feel about all of the off-rhyme in it, but it does work very well in the third stanza. 
