All the flowers, the sweet little rhyme,
Was his courtship charade, mere mime?
Did he truly intend
They be wed in the end,
Or was fucking him wasting her time?
Month: September 2016
Saturday night at the convent
The good Sisters of Mary, though cloistered,
On Saturday nights drank and roistered.
They kicked up their heels,
With loud drunken squeals,
Bare pussies on show, habits hoisted!
Faint praise
Though his manner was surly and gruff,
It was mostly all bluster and bluff.
“Well, you’ve got a nice figure…
Your tits could be bigger,”
He grumped… “but you’ve got a nice muff.”
Young and restless
She was gawky, ill-mannered and restive,
Her clothing immodest, suggestive,
But randy as hell,
Her tits perky as well,
And the nipple rings certainly festive!
Makin’ bacon
One less drink might have just saved her bacon,
Good sense though, alas, long forsaken,
She acted the whore,
An impression, what’s more,
In which, sadly, she wasn’t mistaken!”
Nuanced message
In a palette, though suitably muted,
Befitting a young lady tutored
In elegant ways,
She distinctly conveys
That she’d very much like to be rooted.