On my dressing table, I keep a panther box.
Oh, I have combs and brushes
and lots of luscious soaps and such,
but the panther box is my passion and my prize.
I don't guess that surprises you much?
You, the one who likes to stretch on my bed and sigh--
you know how I can get and how ordinary matters
send me into a catatonic coma
from which the only escape and opening seems to be
to take up my outre and exotic panther box.
Close the door, lover mine.
Plug in the lights for a garland of stars to grace my mirror,
then wrap yourself around me from behind--
I have tempered time like a pet and bought fine new locks
that we might be alone when we open the panther box.