They’d had oysters and steak at the Ritz.
The wine sparkled; he said it had spritz!
She had too much to drink,
And soon (what do you think?)
She was naked, and doing the splits!
Tag: limerick
The adventurer
Not for him scotch or gin, but Campari;
He’d just returned home from safari,
Done China, Japan,
And declared, man to man,
He’d once rooted that girl, Mata Hari!
Test-drive it today!
Made of steel and wood, nuts and bolts,
Lots of grunt, the full two-forty volts,
Her mechanical cock
Out-fucked any dumb jock,
And without a man’s frustrating faults.
No hard feelings
Though not hot, he was quite a nice bloke,
So she kissed him and gave it a stroke.
He got hard…what the hell!
So she shagged him as well,
Though both knew it was just for a joke.
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She was pissed off! As Mum would say, vexed.
So they’d kissed, had a grope. Well, what’s next?
Oral sex, she supposed.
“Wanna fuck?” he proposed.
So she stripped, struck a pose, sent a sext.
Deep inside, she knew
She’d had sex with someone, she suspected,
Or vaguely, next day, recollected…
If so, was it nice?
Did she come? Once? Or twice?
She recalled, though, she hadn’t objected!
The romantic type
They went out in the bus, not a cab.
Later on, at his flat, (rather drab),
He put on the hard word,
(Always did, so she’d heard).
Fair enough, since he’d picked up the tab.
Making a virtue of necessity
He was rough, and a bit of a lech.
He just stripped her and fucked her, poor wretch!
Foreplay? None of the sort!
“Lucky, ain’t it,” she thought.
“Pussies self-lubricate, and they stretch!”
Outrageous fortune
As a girl, her fond dream, which took wings,
Not to be, in the grand scheme of things…
No sweet children, no house,
Garden, dog, doting spouse…
Just a series of sad, sordid flings.
Listen to your elders
As she aged, Gran, once harsh, seemed to soften:
“My girl,” she once said, “have sex often!
Go out, get a man;
Root as much as you can,
‘Cause you won’t get fucked much in the coffin!”