It’s said that clothing makes the man
But it can unmake too.
Now in a dress as you command
I am unmanned by you.

It seems gender is mutable,
Now I am a French maid.
I’m clothed as you deem suitable,
Short skirt, my legs displayed.

I fear I am enjoying this,
I think as I curtsey.
Mistress, have you made me a miss?
Tell me, are you Circe?

You laugh and say “bend over dear,”
And who we are you soon make clear.

I’m told that I have misbehaved.
I talked back and must be punished.
Since Mistress knows I am not brave,
She is promising me one wish.

So now it seems I get to choose,
Cane, paddle, whip, switch, strap or crop.
I see that Mistress is amused,
All I can think is “thanks a lot.”

So now I’ve welts across my rear,
My back, my thighs even my soles,
It seems my choice has cost me dear,
I’ll never more forget our roles.

I cannot sit so I must stand;
From now on I just say “Yes, Ma’am.”

I write you poems and cannot stop
Because of your admonishment:
“More poems! Each one the last to top;
I wait on their accomplishment.”

I have no more to offer you
Except for my poor poet’s tongue,
And as each poem seems one too few
I find that I am never done.

Apprenticed to you Sorceress
I’m drowning in a sea of words.
This is a task most torturous,
Lest you cry “Halt!” I can’t be cured.

Until at last I hear you say
“Enough” I must write poems all day.