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| There once was a girl from Connecticut That attempted some rhymes about etiquette. She was known for her smarts In the Liberal Arts But her verses were worse than patheticut. A writer should earn people's trust She said, as I ogled her bust. She asked what I thought. I said I’d been taught If you want ‘em to buy, give ‘em lust. In the midst of our scholarly chat, She tripped me and laid me down flat. She called me a flirt And tore off my shirt Saying, What about love... what of that? While she prattled, she started unwrapping The bounty her bra was entrapping. One look at that chick, I was dumb as a stick, But her lips and her nips kept on flapping. She said Love is a poet’s idea, Like ono with mato and poeia. Yes, love has a ring, A pop, and a zing, Like a fart when you start diarrhea. I countered that love was like prose, If you bring it to bed you will doze; But lust has a tickle And tastes like a pickle— The big one, right under your nose. So she knelt and she blew and she spit; Saying Teacher, allow me to sit On your face and I'll show you A bilabial flow, you Faux-intellectual twit.’ She sat without any more talk Of love or of lust when a squawk Of joy filled the air As she screamed laissez-faire If I rattle your bones, will you balk? Without waiting, she straddled and rode; All at once, we confluently flowed In prose and in rhyme We even spoke mime! She taught me much more than I knowed. |
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