Some men devote themselves to God,
Others to power, sex and wealth.
The world loves this but thinks men odd
Who give themselves to someone else.

Mistress, your slave thinks just of you,
All thoughts of self left far behind;
And egoless enters into
That space you’ve carved out in his mind

Priest, tyrant, miser, Romeo,
It seems are never satisfied;
Perhaps because they do not know
The peace that serving you provides.

Surrendering to you’s the key
To all your slave wishes to be.

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.