That was the time I carried a basket with an iris
to a girlfriend who insisted she was my shadow.
She said, You remind me of a drunken polar bear.
Well, I said, that’s kind of salacious.
So, you want me to give you the detailed map
to the beautiful body that doesn’t make me a crybaby?
Oh, I want you to be a sex warrior, not a crybaby.
That’s when I wish I’d brought more than one iris
or at least consulted my ultimate map
to discover the inner region of my blue shadow
so I could claim the crown of a brave, salacious
man who summons his inner teddy bear.
Because I didn’t want to be a cold animal, a polar bear,
and didn’t want to show my heart, heart of a crybaby.
I was a typical man. I wanted my most salacious
thoughts to roam her field, harvest her innermost iris,
the one with not a violet or green, but a pink, shadow
that’s a mystery to any lover man’s dream-filled map.
She had ideas, had the night and morning mapped
to her specifications: I don’t want a polar bear
but a brown one who casts a long shadow
on the odds he’ll be the first man I call a crybaby.
So she revealed to me her true name, Iris,
to entice me to display my lowest instincts, my salacious
side, so that she could in turn resort to her preferred, salacious
nature and together we’d chart a different kind of erotic map.
But I balked for a second. I said, I’ll need an Irish
whiskey or that exotic drink with vodka called a Polar Bear
Express that’s got a bit of extra cream from a crybaby’s
lips. She said, Okay, Teddy Bear, want your shadow
too, so you can say to me, Inside my heart lurks the Shadow,
the arbiter of the intellect, the senses, the darkest salacious
talents, to lure me? Well, you’ll never turn into a crybaby.
Now find what we want tonight: our infamous map
mapping the way to achieve what we want, my Poley Bear—
the key to my kingdom: ecstasy for my pink iris.
Yes, I was The Shadow looking for his arcane map,
a walking advertisement of a salacious polar bear.
Better than a crybaby carrying a basket with an iris.