She could be quite a tart, when it suited,
Straight-faced, sotto voce, she mooted…
If dinner went well…
Why, a girl couldn’t tell…
She might not mind, perhaps, being rooted.
Month: May 2014
Yielding not to temptation
Sister Frances just went through the motions,
Still prey, though she prayed, to lewd notions…
If only they knew!
It was all she could do,
Not to touch herself during devotions!
Social climber
She’d been blessed with a healthy libido;
“Use sex to get on” was her credo.
She’d sometimes put out
For a punter or tout,
But fucked anything in a tuxedo.
Balance of power
“Please be gentle, I beg you!” she pleaded.
He grunted, undressed her, proceeded.
He did use some spit,
To assist with the fit,
But used rather more force than was needed.
Assimilation
A young gwai lo who lived in Hong Kong,
In an effort to seem to belong,
Screwed a Chinese girl, twice,
Which, although it was nice,
Nonetheless sort of felt, somehow, wrong.
A palette for the palate
Pussies taste and smell vaguely of yeast,
Which does not put one off in the least!
Sometimes mushrooms, maybe,
Or a hint of the sea;
Come what may, it’s a moveable feast!
Putting on the Ritz
They’d had oysters and steak at the Ritz.
The wine sparkled; he said it had spritz!
She had too much to drink,
And soon (what do you think?)
She was naked, and doing the splits!
The adventurer
Not for him scotch or gin, but Campari;
He’d just returned home from safari,
Done China, Japan,
And declared, man to man,
He’d once rooted that girl, Mata Hari!