He always slept so soundly
the night that followed Bundaberg
with Jersey milk, well mixed,
not shaken and not stirred.
And at first light he'd stretch
and scratch his stubbles,
reminiscing with a carnal smile
about the G-spots of his angels
and the hairy wombats of the night.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreams-remembered/
