They were both still a bit under-aged,
But in love, in their own minds engaged!
So God wouldn’t mind, surely,
Acting impurely…
Guilt, by this, neatly assuaged.
It comes down to this
Over years, raised, dashed and rekindled,
Her hopes, understandably, dwindled
Of marital bliss.
Drinks with friends, a chaste kiss,
The odd root. She felt like she’d been swindled.
Merrie England
Life at court involved plots and skulduggery,
Scandals and sex, hugger-muggery,
Graces and airs
And clandestine affairs,
Not to mention a lot of plain buggery.
Practice versus theory
The best whore ain’t got no heart of gold;
She’s a woman can be bought and sold,
No damn love-talk and shit,
Just get off her damn kit,
And do what a man wants when she’s told.
The spirit made flesh
The soft swell of her bosom sufficed …
Father Flanagan muttered “Oh Christ!”
As she knelt at the rail…
What red-blooded male
Would not be, like him, damn enticed?
Meek
Cold and hungry, life bloomin’ well bleak…
This damn toff gave her nipple a tweak…
“Half a crown!” said the nob…
“You ain’t worth but two bob…”
Twisting harder, to hear her squeak.
On the horns of a dilemma
Might things not be at all as they seem?
Might it be a nefarious scheme
To seduce her, she thought,
And if so, then she ought
To do something perhaps. Maybe scream?
Begging the question
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?
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.”