Disillusioned, his marriage a sham,
His wife’s pussy as tight as a clam,
He began an affair.
Did his wife even care?
Not a fig. Not a gold-plated damn!
Tag: fig
Close encounter of the first kind
It was moist, pink, off-putting a bit,
Like a plump fig, so ripe it had split.
It was dripping with juice,
But what possible use?
Taste it? Poke it? His finger might fit.