She said “Darling… not being pedantic,
But could you be, sort of… less frantic?
It’s called making love,
And, well, heavens above!
Being just fucked just isn’t… romantic!
Tag: making love
Truth in reporting
“We made love… or, to be more precise…
Well… he fucked me… in fact, fucked me twice!”
She said. “Heavens above!
Not a word about love.
But to do it again would be nice!”
The balance of evidence
She made love with commendable zeal;
What’s more, too, to judge by her squeal,
Her twitching and such,
And her cunt’s spastic clutch,
When she came, it was possibly real!
Different strokes
Whereas English girls like it romantic,
The other side of the Atlantic,
The making of love
Is all grunt, push and shove;
Rather vulgar, and loud, and too frantic.
Body and soul
Making love, she gave body and, soul,
Head and heart, her all, gave herself whole,
Until slowly she learned,
When it isn’t returned,
Love or making love, both take a toll.
The secret life of religious fundamentalists
She made love with a strange sort of zeal,
A passion she couldn’t conceal.
It seemed, although odd,
She’d forget about God,
And get off doing something more real!
Wendy, darling!
Late at night. The hut’s full of Lost Boys,
Sound asleep, with their marbles and toys.
If they knew Peter Pan
Could make love like a man…
Wendy comes, with a soft, strangled noise!
The lothario
Smoking jacketed, red satin slippered,
Silk trousers already unzippered,
He mixed her a drink,
Which was, later she’d think,
Like his lovemaking, bloody insipid!
The rank sweat of an enseamed bed
Making love in hot, damp Singapore,
Takes place late, after nine, not before;
A less sweaty affair
In the cooler night air,
With one’s wife or one’s mistress or whore.
Change of heart
Making love, which she’d once so enjoyed,
Left her now unfulfilled and annoyed.
Soon a hand on her knee,
Any intimacy,
She began to resist and avoid.