I scratched my head as you worked feverishly
putting blinds on all of the wide-open windows
in the new house. I was crest-fallen and saddened
 
when you scolded me for having jocular conversations
with strangers. I never saw your laser, eagle-eyes as you
watched everyone who incredulously watched my booty.
 
As I went about the task of decorating, you were quickly 
becoming a home security expert. No covering, chain,
security door or alarm system would take care of this
earth-shattering, problematic matter of my big ole booty.
 
What unsuspecting adolescent might see my big booty through
a telescope designed for perusing constellations, stars?
 
Who might catch a glimpse as I emerged glistening
from olive-oiled waters in the darkness at nightfall?
 
Who might catch an unauthorized glance from the rear
as I was shopping for houshold items and groceries?
 
Who could assist you in making my booty invisible to all
but you, in a locale where booty reigns supreme,  where
breasts and legs are just a matter of personal preference?
 
The firestorm of your territorial reflex left me crazed.
 
Your excursion into the land of  bizarre irrationality
was a not so simple matter of a high-slung, heart-shaped,
super-sized (don't tell momma) big, ole bouncy booty.