At the sight of her cunt his heart sank;
It was threatening, alien, dank,
Sort of turned inside-out
It might bite him, no doubt!
“No”, he muttered, “I think I’ll just wank.”
Star-crossed lovers
As the dagger plunged into her breast,
That by Romeo sweetly caressed,
Who lay dead by the side
Of his five-days-old bride,
“What a fuck-up!” she thought, unimpressed.
Carmina Burana
An obscure old order monastic,
Decidedly iconoclastic,
Were fuckers and drunks,
(Not your average monks),
And their rites, by and large, orgiastic.
Opportunity knocks
She said no, but then paused to reflect…
His proposal, though crude, showed respect…
Well … he hadn’t said ‘fuck’…
One might see it as luck…
As an offer one ought not reject!
Vive la revolution
La Duchesse was renowned for her haughtiness,
Patronage, wealth and her naughtiness;
Artists and such
Must endure her touch,
Her bad breath, sweaty bosom and wartiness.
Begging the question
She was pretty one couldn’t refute,
But the question, of course, remained moot;
Would she spurn a man’s love?
And when push came to shove,
If asked nicely enough, would she root?
Rustic idyll
He was just a crude bumpkin, a yokel,
Uncultured, not terribly vocal,
But God, could he hump!
And a cock like a stump!
And what’s more, she thought, handily local.
The gamut
First she satisfied him by hand, orally,
(Somehow, that seemed better, morally);
Strangely, quite zanily,
Then also anally,
Finally also vaginally, sorrily.*
* Imperfect rhythm in the last line, I know, but irresistible.
In retrospect
It was moot, which affected her worse;
Oral sex, which she thought quite perverse,
Or his cock in her cunt,
Being fucked from in front,
Or rolled over and fucked in reverse!
Delicious uncertainty
How much more such delight could she bear?
Not to know, and in fact not to care,
Though a little perplexed,
Where he rooted her next;
In her mouth or her cunt or elsewhere!