A Piece of the Pie
 
The Rogue has ridden, hidden, risked his buns to fun-and-run,
But still arrives, unbidden, like a bullet from a gun.

The words— and legs— are spreading; he’s endowed to plow your land
By messing up your bedding, and the wedding you had planned.
 
Your mixed emotions greet him (he’s a blessing and a curse),
But nothing shall defeat him (no vagina, verve, or verse).

You lie and try to shame him with your feministic pack,
And blame, rename and game him, but he gives you what you lack—
 
A Hyde providing service with an emphasis on ‘serve’—
He’s never reckless, nervous, or neglectful of a curve.

By tongue or tool or fingers, it’s a guarantee you’ll come
To find the tingle lingers in your tummy (or your bum).
 
But, please continue ranting, and incanting like a witch—
When you’re attached and panting, he’s the cat to scratch your itch.

He meets your satisfaction, but your need believes you’re more
Than just a piece — or fraction — of the pie he’s peckish for.
 
Don’t fool yourself by thinking you’re the one to school the beast,
For when your spirit’s sinking, he'll be rising in the east.

He’s in disguise — and preying — like the Scarlet Pimpernel,
And fond for always saying—See a harlot?...Pump her well!