This is arguably the greatest poem ever writ on the subject of poor circulation, and the toll it takes on two lovers in the conjugal nest. I think the greatest aspect of the poem is the way in which the meter plays against the rhyme, both internally and the other way. Also, the emotion is profound.
A Poem By Ricky Sprague
Your poor circulation
Stops carnal relation;
The pain always lingers
From icy cold fingers.
The wine has spilled, and you have killed
My heart has stilled, for you have chilled
It is hardly a treat
To be touched by your feet,
In the conjugal bed;
It’s the touch of the dead.
Your hands of ice do not entice
Take my advice: A warming device
Dejected, blood fickle,
It slows to a trickle.
Even in weather warm,
Your touch is winter storm.
I have to scold your limbs so bold
Two hands enfold while I catch cold