I thought I'd test the bawdy/erotic threshold in this text. In the past I've looked at this book as more along the lines of "bawdy." Just now I randomly opened the book and am looking at page 57. The chorus to the song that is showed as version B of "My Husband's a Mason" goes:

Chorus:
Dance a little bit, fuck a little bit.
Follow the band, follow the band
With your balls in your hand, singing,
Dance a little bit, fuck a little bit.
Follow the band. Follow them all the way home.

My father's a postman,
A postman, a postman,
A mighty fine postman is he!
All day he licks stamps,
He licks stamps, he licks stamps,
And when he comes home, he licks me.

My father's a baker,
A baker, a baker,
A mighty fine baker is he!
All day he creams puffs,
He creams puffs, he creams puffs,
And when he comes home, he creams me.

If I look back to page 55 where the series starts, I see the typical song with bad puns:

"My husband's a mason, a mason, a mason,
A very fine mason is he.
All day he lays bricks, lays bricks, lays bricks.
At night he comes home and lays me.
---Tra la la,
---At night he comes home and lays me."

Okay, that's fine. The "my father" substituted for "my husband" or "lover" or whatever else might be used makes it a bit distasteful, but I get the puns. The song is more (pardon the pun) straightforward in the earliest version (bricklayer/husband).

Bob, there is a difference between what MEN think is erotic and what WOMEN think is erotic. It has been my experience that men like the graphic give-it-a-name-and-visualize-it kind of poem.

This poem appeared in the Paris Review in 1996 and got poet Scott Cairns "unhired" from Seattle Pacific University. Line scan might be off--I have a print copy in a file somewhere, but I found this online. You won't be surprised when I note that my Dad first called my attention to this poem!

Interval with Erato

   That's what I like best about you, Erato sighed in bed, that's why
   you've become one of my favorites and why you will always be so.
   I grazed her ear with my tongue, held the salty lobe between my lips.

   I feel like singing when you do that, she said with more than a hint
   of music already in her voice. So sing, I said, and moved down
   to the tenderness at the edge of her jaw. Hmmm, she said, that's nice.

   Is there anything you don't like? I asked, genuinely meaning
   to please. I don't like poets in a hurry, she said, shifting
   so my lips might achieve the more dangerous divot of her throat.

   Ohhhh, she said, as I pressed a little harder there. She held my face
   in both hands. And I hate when they get careless, especially
   when employing second-person address. She sat up, and my mouth

   fell to the tip of one breast. Yes, she said, you know how it can be--
   they're writing "you did this" and "you did that" and I always assume,
   at first, that they mean me! She slid one finger into my mouth to tease

   the nipple there. I mean it's disappointing enough to observe
   the lyric is addressed to someone else, and then, the poet spends
   half the poem spouting information that the you--if she or he

   were listening--would have known already, ostensibly as well as,
   or better than, the speaker. I stopped to meet her eyes. I know just
   what you mean, I said. She leaned down to take a turn, working my chest

   with her mouth and hands, then sat back in open invitation.
   Darling, she said as I returned to the underside of her breast,
   have you noticed how many poets talk to themselves, about themselves?

   I drew one finger down the middle of her back. Maybe they fear
   no one else will hear or care. I sucked her belly, cupped her sopping
   vulva with my hand. My that's delicious, she said, lifting into me.

   Are all poets these days so lonely? She wove her fingers with mine
   so we could caress her there together. Not me, I said, and ran
   my slick hands back up to her breasts. I tongued her thighs. I said, I'm not

   lonely now. She rubbed my neck, No, dear, and you shouldn't be. She clenched, Oh!
   a little early bonus, she said; I like surprises. Then, So
   few poets appreciate surprises, so many prefer to speak

   only what they, clearly, already know, or think they know. If I
   were a poet ... well, I wouldn't be one at all if I hadn't
   found a way to get a little something for myself--something new

   from every outing, no? Me neither, I said, if somewhat indistinctly.
   Oh! she said. Yes! she said, and tightened so I felt her pulse against
   my lips. She lay quietly for a moment, obviously thinking.

   Sweetie, she said, that's what I like best about you--you pay attention,
   and you know how to listen when a girl feels like a little song.
   Let's see if we can't find a little something now, especially for you.

Of course, you realise that this really doesn't have to do with sex at all. . .

SRS