She’d sit, hands in her lap, and bemoan,
That because of her damned chaperone,
Though she longed to be kissed,
And she wouldn’t resist,
What damn chance, when they’re never alone?
Month: June 2011
The chic clique
Women long to belong to the clique
Of the sleek and the terribly chic;
Of those simply unable
To wear a cheap label,
To cover their scrawny physique.
They imagine they have a mystique,
Unconcerned by the chaos they wreak;
Anorexia looms,
For those vanity dooms
To the struggle to feel unique.
Eyebrows, lips, bum and hips get a tweak,
Then some sculpting of chin and the beak;
And no sane woman rests
Without plumping her breasts
With prostheses that harden and leak.
They know well, it’s of them that I speak,
Women passing their sexual peak;
They who inwardly rage
At the coming of age,
To whom life unobserved seems so bleak.
So they lie, and they cheat, and they sneak,
Make themselves into some sort of freak;
Despite smooth, unlined faces,
The airs and the graces,
They’re sad, and pathetic, and weak.
Preamble
“Though I bear you the utmost affection,”
He said, “if you have no objection,
I’ll now call you bitch,
And do bad things, for which
I confess an extreme predilection!”
Confession
With her sweetest, most charming expression,
She murmured, “I have a confession…
Before we were wed,
I perhaps should have said
That I worked at world’s oldest profession.”
Body language
They’d gone out after work for a drink;
Did she wink at him then, or just blink?
She’d unbuttoned her blouse…
Was it done to arouse?
Was she teasing? What must the guy think?
The proof of the pudding
Lots of blokes choose a wife by her looks.
Girls try hard, till they get in their hooks.
Even if she puts out,
It’s still, quite beyond doubt,
More important to know how she cooks.
Such is life
He’d had one chance at life and cocked up…
He’d been scared he’d be bloody locked up!
It was sheer bad luck…
Two young kids, their first fuck,
And she got herself fucking knocked up!
The off-chance
A girl goes to the pub with a plan;
To attract a nice gullible man,
Who might pay for her drinks,
Whom she’ll kiss, if she thinks
He might fancy a fuck, if he can.
Questions
He’d selected a nice place to dine;
His first question was “Beer or wine?”
Then things went on okay,
So what else would he say,
But “A nightcap then? Your place or mine?”
Beer glasses
He was unwashed, unshaven and rough.
She was only a nice bit of fluff;
But a few glasses more,
And what each of them saw
Was beginning to look good enough!