One could honestly publish a book
About Alfons , our myopic cook:
What a jolly old farce,
When he stuffed the maid’s arse,
Not the turkey’s (like which it did look!)
Month: December 2024
To the manner born
If not born to the manner, begin
By acquiring a taste for good gin,
And when plumbing the arse
Of a woman of class
Have a fellow to play violin.
On the tip of her tongue
Lady Forsythe, her clothing askew,
Claimed that someone, she didn’t know who,
Since his name now escaped her,
Quite possibly raped her,
Whilst bending down, tying her shoe.
Wet
Through the limpid Bombay afternoon,
As we wait out the summer monsoon,
To relieve the ennui
I take afternoon tea,
With the lady whose clothing’s here strewn.