What joy awaits you from the station yard,
   Oh lithe-limbed lovely in the skiing pants?
What warm upholstery will hold those thighs?
    What tasseled lanes from Surrey into Hants
Will meet the rapture of those dark brown eyes?
What pedal feel the Dolcis pressing hard?
Yours, revved-up Mini-minor all her own—
Her passion’s plaything and her body’s throne.