|
|
|
If Annette were a statue of Venus
And I were a sculptor obscenus,
I would polish her bust
To quicken her lust
And beget an ethereal genus.
If Barbie were bricks in a pile,
I’d lay her in stacks with a smile;
Then ply her with mortar
And plumb as I orter;
The Masons would covet my style.
If Charmaine were a shark swimming free
On the
Mediterranean Sea.
I would swim in her wake
And eat her
like cake.
Jaws would
have nothing on me.
If Denise were a bell in a tower,
I’d be the humdinger to wow her.
Sixty minutes I'd linger
To ring-a-ding-ding ‘er.
She’d call me her man of the hour.
If Elle were a nun with bad habits,
I'd be happy as heck not to blab it
To her Superior Nun
In exchange for the fun
Of hopping on Elle like a rabbit.
If Felicia were the girl in that joke
With the salesman, the pig and the poke;
It would lead one to think
That except for the stink
She'd be thoroughly pork-able folk.
If Giselle were a circus baboon
We would ride in a hot air balloon;
Then I'd give it a prick
With my seven foot stick
And we'd pffft to a far-flung saloon.
If Hope took the vows of a Monk,
She would feel right at home as a drunk;
I would offer her Manna
Interlaced with banana
And some of my personal spunk.
When she swallowed my seminal junk, She would quicken and push out a punk Of a lad, and she'd see He was pretty as me And she'd drop all those Monks with a clunk. (Then I'd help her disrobe in my bunk)If Inez were a ha-cha-cha taco In need of some salsa del jocko, I would sauce her, by jingo, And she would say Gringo, from this day we will call you El Cocko. If Jemima were just like her syrups, as sweet as a robin that chirrups. I'd swallow her waffle In one mighty jaw-ful Producing more belches than burrups. If Kathleen were a true Cat'lic lass With a bushy Hibernian Pass, I’d stroll me shillelagh Up her lane three times daily And beg her forgiveness at Mass. If Lee were a pie in a diner Her filling would smack of vaginer, I’d nibble her crust, Then choose if I must Eighty-six ’er or just sixty-nine ’er. If May were a slave with perfume To be buried in Pharaoh's new tomb, For her, I'd do murder, For if they interred her, She’d surely be scent to her doom. If Nadine were a chocolate sundae, I’d lick her from Tuesday to Monday. First cherry, then question Would pop in succession. Now, that is what I'd call a fun day! And early the very next Sunday, I’d declare me a freedom from cun’ day. And lickety-split, I’d leave (what a twit!) And head for the hills in my Hyundai.If Ophelia gets caught by Prince Hamlet, What name should they christen their lamb-let? Since Hamlet sounds edible And Ophelia's so spreadable, Perhaps they should call him Boy Spamlet. If Paulette, the coquette, were a baleen, Her hole would blow fountains of saline. She would jettison flotsam. I’d share if I gotsam. They say that it tastes just like praline. If Quintina were lost on the ocean, Screaming, ‘Somebody save me, by Goshen!’ I’d rise up her Dead Sea And flush out her Red Sea. She would be much overcome by me motion. If Rebecca, old Tom Sawyer's wife, Was to whistle a song on my fife Or to whitewash my picket, I would chirp like a cricket— I just loves dat ol' Mississipp' life. If Samantha were planted like greenery In The Garden of Public Obscenery. With her scent of a beanery And her tulips so plenary, I’d chew her like actors chew scenery. If Theresa came down with the mudders, I'd accuse her of letting her brudders Hold a dance in her pants Then make an advance On her sisters and aunties and dudders. If Ursa were bare as a bear With honey aplenty down there, She could shinny my tree And spread it on me-- If Smokey were willing to share. If Virginia were truly a virgin I’d ask her for marital mergin'. But I know she's a whore Since I had her before Her midsection started to burgeon. If Winona were waterfalls falling, I’d follow her sirenesque calling To the turbulent pit Enswirling her clit Or is that just a crab down there, crawling? If Xandra were charmed by a pixie, I’d give her a promise and lick. See, I would vow to un-hex her Then liquor and sex her, And break her wee charm with my dick, see? If Yolanda no longer got joy From her usual masculine toy, I’d diddle Yolandy And make her feel dandy. She would never need no other boy. If Zoë were Terra's Queen Mother, I’d pander to each royal druther. I’d hand her the riches Of all of these bitches And take her to heights where she’d wuther*. * Wuther (v)-- to blow, hard Apologia Not one of these dames is the item Here written of ad infinitum. So, if they're offended, I’ll have them up-ended And there on their bottoms I’ll bite ‘m. |
|
|
