Rained On

There's no hint of sunshine on the bookcase,
Just a knowing creak from the wooden desk,
As I stand and observe the raindrops trace
Their paths to the sill; meanwhile it seems best
To attend to my papers: I'll tidy the piles,
And close off my mind to ambiguous thoughts;
Though, like the sunshine, these warm my wiles
And the naughtiness each wile supports;

Imagine this desk, where I am standing,
Consider yourself bent over its wood;
Now raise your skirt, aware I'm demanding
Your underwear lowered - you know you should
Simply look forward and not turn your head,
Eager and keen to be rained on instead.