An imprudent young girl from Connecticut,
Went out in nought but a petticoat.
Passers-by gawked;
Gossips pointed and talked
About hussies and breaches of etiquette.
Category: G
For general consumption
Down to earth
I like girls who grew up on the farm;
For them sex is no cause for alarm:
Making love, making hay;
It’s just part of their day,
Which all adds to their innocent charm.
Total recall
He recalled how they’d kissed and embraced,
How he’d felt with his arm round her waist;
How she laughed, how she spoke,
And each day, when he woke,
He could smell her, and still taste her taste.
Virtue's reward
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?
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.
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.”
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.
Love the one you're with
Though she swore that she loved the boy dearly,
Maybe, too, meant it sincerely,
Feeling that way
With whomever she lay,
Well, who knows whom she loved, or more nearly?
Porn
Quite a lot of what passes for porn,
Be it photos, or written, or drawn,
Is so matter-of-fact
It’s devoid of impact,
And provokes, not one’s lust, but a yawn.
Age
The approach of old age is insidious:
Though one be e’er so fastidious,
Year by year
More wrinkles appear.
One day you wake up old and hideous!