romance

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!

Nefarious

He’s been planning for ages, it seems…
Lots of dirty, nefarious schemes
To get into her pants,
Which the fool called romance…
“Fuck you, buster!” she says. “In your dreams!”

Star crossed lovers

Their romance, you might say, was ill fated.
They met in school, flirted and dated,
Had sex then, most days,
Lots of int’resting ways,
Till he fucked some hot bitch who she hated!

Come and gone

At an age where her prospects had dwindled,
Romance had, at last, it seemed, kindled!
She lowered her pants,
Leaving nothing to chance,
But next morning found out she’d been swindled!

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.

The romantic arts

Her damn love life was all fits and starts!
She’d allowed men to touch bits and parts,
Touched that part of them too!
Well, what more could she do?
Men cared more about girls’ tits than hearts!

Kiss a frog, anyone?

Fast becoming a sexual hermit,
Plain luckless and fuckless, a Kermit,
He could have used whores
But he didn’t because …
It lacked… romance, he guessed you could term it.

The cut of his jib

A trained eye, she could tell at a glance,
From his stance, and the cut of his pants,
All about a man’s prick…
Was it long? Was it thick?
If he felt like a bit of romance!

Antisocial media

Well of course, she was sort of offended,
Not only because it had ended,
Her Facebook romance…
Once he’d got in her pants…
It was more being fucked… then un-friended.