Your thighs: cold lard. Your rear: snow cones.
They hold no trace of heat.
Poor circulation makes your buttocks
Feel like frozen meat.
When I suggest hot oil massage,
All you can say is "What?!?"
I can't unfreeze your proud behind
Or melt your cold, cold butt.

I've purchased tons of home-care stuff,
Just let me name a few:
Electric socks and sheepskin panties,
Gave them all to you.
Still ev'ry Christmas you're upset,
My gifts don't make the cut.
Why can't I heat your proud behind
And melt your cold, cold butt?

I microwave your pillow, dear.
The blanket's turned to "High."
Our thermostat is set at 80.
You complain and cry.
My Latin blood enflames me so
My question may sound crass.
Why can't I heat your proud behind
And melt your ice-cold ass?

I'll boil another pot of tea
And fetch the lava rocks.
I'll cover them with thin asbestos,
Drop them in your socks.
If this is what will thaw your rump
I'm glad to do my part.
I've lit the propane blowtorch, dear,
But, damn you, don't dare fart.