You were pleased by my touch when I'd knead you.
Gloves came off, and I'd do some deep-tissue.
Upon your back I'd beat,
And then I'd whack your feet.
I'd knead you.

You said, "It feels just as if you meld me.
Other times it feels as if you weld me.
I didn't realize
How bad you'd bruised my thighs,"
You'd scold me.

One day you told me:
You don't want massages anymore.
That really hurt me.
So feeling my fist
Is not something that you adore?

Squeeze, remember how I'd feel around you?
Now you request that I cease to pound you.

"Go back to your old scene,
To work at 'Chez Tony'
And knead dough,
And knead dough,
And knead dough."