Sally’s Razor

Sally’s Razor
by NK Tryggvason

Once shiny and new & sharper than wit
At the back to the shelf, the razor does sit
Tarnished and dull with a rust spot or two
Alone and abandoned with nothing to do

A tender young maiden once eager to please
Shaved both armpits and her legs to the knees
Now Older and Wiser and not so willing to behave
A politized activist certainly can’t shave

And, wondering what it had done to offend,
The lonely razor planned to amend
Its forgotten state, and return to the fore
Of Sally’s toilette, or at least be used more

Waiting and watching for it’s chance to gleam
And needing some help from the shower steam
The razor strained and stretched til it slid
Off the shelf, down the tile, to the toilet seat lid

Sally poked her head out after the noise
Her date glancing at the razor, Sally lost poise.
“You shave?” the date asked, incredulous
“No!” stammered Sally, still trying to sous

How the razor landed in such a visible place
And her face grew redder as egg formed on her face
“I thought I’d tossed it,” Sally swore, dripping wet,
“I stopping shaving when I stopped being het!”

Her date laughed, dropped the razor in the trash,
Then slipped into the shower, not wanting to hash
Sally’s transgression when there was love to make,
Teasing was for later, and hot coals to rake.