There’s a beautiful sad evanescence,
A poignant pique in tumescence:
One moment of rapture
We cannot recapture,
Then nought but a sticky excrescence.
Tag: limerick
The bind
Having suitably been wined and dined,
A girl’s placed in a bit of a bind:
She can either say no,
Put her coat on and go,
Or give in and make payment in kind.
Made for it
It’s a marvel, how girls are designed,
Nicely padded, in front and behind,
With appropriate slots
In the handiest spots:
You’d have thought God had fucking in mind!
The revelation
There was a young lady called Chris,
Who thought fucking was absolute bliss.
She had nothing but pity
For girls who, though pretty,
Still just used their fannies to piss!
Versatile
It’s the nature of women to bleed,
From the place whence I thought they just peed,
And this versatile slot
Is the very same spot
Where a man, if he can, squirts his seed!
Quirk of fate
An old codger stared deep in his beer,
Beset by irrational fear,
That some quirk of fate
Made him fancy his mate,
And he might, without knowing, be queer!
Tell him he’s dreaming
On the whole it seems best to avoid
Any hint of acceptance of Freud:
There’s a lingering stink
About Sigmund, I think,
Of the faeces with which he once toyed.
Fidelity
A past mistress I fondly admired,
Proclaimed, and I think it inspired:
Boring fidelity
Leaves, in reality,
Lots to be greatly desired.
Res ipso loquitur
Though her parents had preached Doctor Spock at her,
The first man who brandished his cock at her
Was whisked into bed,
Not a single word said!
As the lawyers say, res ipso loquitur!
The juice
The ubiquitous, urbane solicitor
In fact’s just a plan fact eliciter.
The actual work
Is done by his clerk,
Bar the juicier jobs, or illiciter.