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49 Pitching Woo You want a man who’s not all Gollies and galoshes, The head-rattling reek of cowcakes in a spring field. Nor could you love Some little dude too fond of doodads, Wisp of nostalgia curling from his Bozo hair. It’s me you crave, baby, even if You don’t know it yet, Blackout in the crystal ball of your noggin. You won’t find me In a three-piece suit and a silver bracelet, Portfolios under my pinstriped arm. You won’t catch me at the coon hunt Or the tractor pull, Biceps rising like an Alabama moon. But when my voice Slides over you, you’ll feel Something breaking in your jackhammer heart. And when my eyes, sleek as Two stallions in the sweat-stained night, Darken as yours do, How could you resist? From the cold ceremony of the stars Comes such heat We’ll burn below And bark like dogs in the dog days. And after that, The less said, the better. ...

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