A Most Exotic Lady
… and then I met Pritzipittil:
a most exotic lady.
Her name sounded Prussian
Teutonic, or Slav
but her diamond eye,
carmine hair
and sapphire shading
suggested origins
beyond European climes.
She said she’d traversed
a billion light years
to be with me only…
I thought she was
speaking poetically.
Two Babychams
would send her into fits
of snuffly-curly-giggles
and her skin would take on
a purplish hue,
then her coquettish demeanour
would glow
in the autumnal half-light.
Romantic entanglement was fraught
because her tongue spanned ten inches
and there was a risk of choking,
although I did think
the possibilities were intriguing.
Her three breasts didn’t faze me:
I know such things occur in nature
and anyways,
a trio of shimmering nipples
had a strange effect on me.
Then I discovered exactly where
she kept her maidenhead
and decided she was far too exotic,
even for a two-penis man.
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My Love
My love is not like
a red, red rose
with her aquiline features
and roaming nose;
I couldn’t compare her
to a summer’s day:
perhaps a wet weekend
in early May.
My love is not like
an orchid in bloom,
though resembles a tulip
at the end of June;
she’s not as joyful
as a bird on a spree
but she is like a cat,
who’s scratching a flea.
My love is not like
a bright, starry night
though early morning
she is quite a sight;
she’s never a vision
in silk and lace,
for crimson red, is
the hue of her face.
My love is not like
the blossom of spring
though does get wind
like winter can bring;
she couldn’t have launched
a thousand ships
but perhaps Titanic,
on its maiden trip.
My love is not like
a mystery smile
though her toothy grin
would stall you awhile;
when all’s said and done,
she’s the one for me
for I’m no Adonis
myself, you see.
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The Problem With Knickers
I recall a time
(too many years ago)
when I was a strapping youth
and I courted a comely girl named Marie.
Stuttering hearts in the infancy of first love;
she was the answer to all of my prayers:
every stomping, young man’s dream.
And then one day in October,
we were round her house:
holding hands,
exploring,
discovering,
plying secret trysts
and my loins were on fire;
I thought my libido was about to burst.
Then, suddenly, her Mum entered the room:
a formidable woman of mountainous dimensions.
I was the epitome of a nice young gentleman.
But then, equally suddenly, it turned nasty:
Marie and her Mum began arguing.
Something unresolved,
raised voices,
tempers flaring.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat like a lemon (as you would).
Marie’s Mum then made a dramatic gesture
and her knickers fell down around her ankles:
huge, voluminous, parachute-sized bloomers.
There was total and utter silence in the room.
And Marie’s Mum then shrieked loudly,
stepped out of her fallen knickers
and ran from the room
at an amazing speed.
Marie then shrieked loudly,
quickly gathered up her Mum’s knickers
and ran from the room at the same amazing speed.
I was transfixed, staggered, not knowing what to do.
Soon, Marie returned, sheepish and embarrassed,
and told me that her Mum said I had to leave;
her mum never let me see Marie again.
I thought my life was ended.
But then I met Julie
and her Mum
was petite,
much slimmer;
a very friendly lady.
And Julie’s Mum’s knickers
were never any sort of problem.
But that’s another story, for another day.
Showcased on Laura Hird's website
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Poetry Man
I said I was
a poetry man
with words and songs
and dreams to tell;
I said I’d got
the rhythm and rhyme.
She said, ‘Wow!
Come and ding my bell.’
I said her eyes
were like sapphires
and her lips like
molten honey;
I said her smile
was a neon light.
She said, ‘Coo!
I’ve gone all funny.’
I said she was
a shiny moon,
that we should love
amongst the heather;
I said we’d dance
a naked fling.
She said, ‘Huh?
In British weather?’
I said my heart
was aquiver
and my loins all
knotted with strings;
I said we’d scale
the mounts of love.
She said, ‘Hmm.
You say such weird things.’
I said we’d live
on the furthest isle
without car or
phone or telly;
I said I’d sing
my poems to her.
She said, ‘Eek!
Not on your Nellie.’
******************************
Back In ‘69
...and when a curly girlie
with winsome hip
and sparkling eye
boldly asked,
“Will you show me
your manhood?”
I obliged:
machismo on display –
showed her what I’d got.
We tripped
through winter’s
pristine hoar:
giggling,
shining,
awakening
and she lied
that I was handsome.
Then realisation hit me
when she skipped away:
hooting with laughter,
clapping wildly,
singing a ditty,
dancing a jig;
shouting out,
”Gotcha!
I only asked
because I wanted
to see your manhood.”
I was devastated, debased:
lost my faith in human nature
...and worst of all...
I got frostbite in my extremity
because I exposed myself
during the coldest spell
in almost 18 years:
severe air-frost,
chill factor minus ten;
when the world was new
and the sun was nigh;
in the early morn,
at the start of year;
when I was young
back in '69.
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