21 – Speed Dating

Poem number 21
Speed Dating
I met a girl with ash blonde hair
And breasts that were quite big
Her bra was full of padding
And the hair was just a wig.
Her name was really Colin
He wore woman’s clothes for kicks
His voice was deep and booming
And his breath smelt quite like sick.
I smiled and made excuses
Then I left him on his chair
And found a girl with tiny breasts
And lovely coal black hair.


69 – 69

Poem number 69
69, 69,
I’ll eat yours if you’ll eat mine
Come on down it’s time to dine –
There’s room for all, just form a line
For good old 69.
69, 69,
Nectar nibbled off the vine
Don’t stop now you selfish swine –
Come up for air and you’ll be fine
In good old 69.

82 – Eh Oh Tinky Winky

Poem number 82
Eh Oh Tinky Winky
My sister pulled a Tellytubby
On a drunken night
Then suddenly got very chubby –
Something wasn’t right
So we took her to a private doc
Who only charged a tenner,
The ultrasound was quite a shock:
Quadruplets with antennae!
My sister fainted clean away
Her future ruined, lost!
Four Telly-babies on the way
At heaven knows what cost.
And for what? A slightly kinky
Half an hour of drunken sex
With a pissed up Tinky Winky
On the rebound from his ex.
So let that be a warning
To you ladies of the gin
Lest you wake one headache morning
With quadruplets hid within –
Don’t be tempted by the weenies
Of those Tellytubby boys,
Just stick to shagging Tweenies
Or, perhaps, just stick to toys.

88 – High Wired

Poem number 88
High Wired
He glided across the High Wire. Tiny confident step after tiny confident step
Tunic gleaming in the spots, tight trousers, gloves of white
Sculpted body and the face of Johnny Depp
The audience loved him. Eyes sparkling they sat in silent delight
Until someone sneezed. A small wobble. His concentration wrecked.
A bigger wobbling step. Another. Desperate arms flung to the side
And a plunge. Down. Down. To an end he could hardly expect
As the net broke. His head hit the floor. He died
In a flash, a baby bird fallen forever from its tree
And shattered. Never to return to the skies above.
The audience inhaled. Screamed in terror, or was it glee
At the end of one for whom they’d declared their love?
For what is the High Wire but an invitation to the feast?
The promise of tragedy. An opportunity. The slightest chance
To witness disaster, or misfortune at least
For the demigod. Up there on a wire and paid to dance.
So the women screamed. Peeking through loosely woven fingers
At the blood. The bone. The end
Of it all. And for them the memory lingers
Through taxi rides home and stiff gins before they embark on a night they will spend
In bed. With a lover. Re-enacting the plunge in their mind
As they succumb to ecstasy. Sex is death is sex once more
And in all the world what else could they find
But the High Wire, to sate them. And endure.

111 – Beyond The Boobs

Poem number 111
Beyond The Boobs
Buns and baps and wobbly bits
The ladies have nice parts
But a lady who eats lots of beans
Is always prone to farts
And all the pert and lovely nips
And bottoms in the world
Can’t hide the smell of used white wine
And burgers when she hurls
So look beyond the boobies
When it’s time for you to choose –
Pick a lass who hates bakes beans
And never touches booze.

127 – Two Men In A Shopping Centre

Poem number 127
Two Men In A Shopping Centre
Would you like to see my nipple?
Yes I would, good sir
But wait ’til no one’s looking
Or you might create a stir.
You don’t want to be arrested
I don’t want to cause a scene
I’m respected and important
And last year I met the Queen,
So hang on a mo, I’ll scout the land…
Yep! The coast is clear!
Reveal to me your nipple –
But be quick with it, my dear!

159 – Rouse The Old John Thomas

Poem number 159
Rouse The Old John Thomas
Sexual diversity’s the norm, or so they say
Most men sleep with ladies but a lot of men are gay
Some men fancy animals and some seduce the dead
Some men’s wild ambition is to take their gran to bed
But no-matter the proclivity
There’s only one real goal:
To rouse the old John Thomas and then stick it in a hole.
A hole, a hole,
Any hole’s a goal
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole,
Find the game that suits you
And whatever keeps you whole
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.
Some men do it solo with inflated rubber dollies
Some men have to wear a mask and wrap themselves in holly,
There are men who dip in ketchup and then penetrate a roll
But wild or tame the game’s the same –
Just stick it in a hole.
A hole, a hole,
Any hole’s a goal
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole,
Find the game that suits you
Do whatever keeps you whole
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.
In the middle of the Arctic there are men who sleep with seals
In the hotter climes the coconut is something that appeals
Bankers may be wankers and some farmers like a foal
But whatever the perversity
A hole is just a hole.
A hole, a hole,
Any hole’s a goal
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.
All men have to penetrate to save their mortal soul,
Simply rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.

177 – Carpe Diem!

Poem number 177
Carpe Diem!
Beneath the pockmarked chalky moon,
The acne laden sky
They chanced to hear a crooner croon
Before they said goodbye.
He sang a song of solitude
Of love and loss and sex
The words were short and very crude
And left them both perplexed.
As they parted by her landlord’s door
She kissed him, rather chaste
Said “Darling if you really sure
I’m not a total waste
Will you shag me here, tomorrow
Underneath the moonlit sky?
I’d be rather filled with sorrow
If we never had a try.”
And the idiot, the total fool
Said “Could we not just kiss?
I think our chastity is cool
So let’s give sex a miss.”
The ‘morrow came as ‘morrow’s do
He brought a bunch of flowers
He stood there in his shiny shoes –
She didn’t show for hours,
When she did he said “You’re lagging!
We’re you victim of a crime?”
She said “No – I’ve been out shagging
And I lost the track of time.”
Then she kissed him, sadly, on the head
And waved a fond goodbye –
He should’ve nailed her on the bed
And not refused to try.
So the moral of this tragic ode
Beneath the pockmarked moon
Is that if you’re standing by the road
And hear a crooner croon
Then for Christ sake don’t be chicken –
Take your chance son, while you can
Or your girl will end up dickin’
Someone else, you stupid man!

192 – The Hunt For Miss Annabelle’s Pussy

Poem number 192
The Hunt For Miss Annabelle’s Pussy
The hunt for Miss Annabelle’s pussy
Was thorough, efficient and long
We searched through the night and we searched through the day
And then figured that something was wrong.
So we called on the police, that redoubtable plod
Inspector Tiberius Minge
Who stood with a sigh from his half eaten pie
And winced as his back gave a twinge.
“A pussy?” He said, “Are you sure that it’s lost?
Have you looked in her bush and downstairs?”
“Of course!” We all cried, “But all that we spied
In her bush were a few little hairs!
We’re baffled and worried, out of our depth
So whilst we do hate to impinge
On your time, it seems best that we make a request –
Could you possibly, Inspector Minge?”
Tiberius rose, tapped his nose with a smile
Said “I’ll sniff out that pussy indeed –
Her pussy is fishy
But Annabelle’s dishy
This could be the chance that I need!”
So then we departed, the hunt was restarted
O’er valleys and deep down below
With Minge helping out there was really no doubt
That the pussy would soon be on show.
And lo and behold was the mystery solved
As the shadows grew long on the ground
In just shy of an hour standing under the shower
The sopping wet pussy was found.
Miss Annabelle sobbed in relief and embraced
The Inspector, who blinked like an owl
Then said, like a champ, “Your poor pussy looks damp
Shall I give it a dry with a towel?”
And so ends the tale of Miss Annabelle’s pussy
An epic, I’m sure you’ll concur
The pussy recovered, new love was discovered
When Minge dried the drips off its fur.
A marriage ensued and the pussy joined in
At the wedding with nary a whinge
Such a dear little thing so they made it a ring
And now Annabelle’s pussy’s a Minge!

204 -Dusk

Poem number 204
As the light fades, I find myself contemplating your arse
It’s half in shadow now, as you doze
Through the timeless dusk.
As arses go, it’s pretty damned good
Even in the full glare of sunlight, but here
And now it is magnificent.
The shadows lend mystery to the curves
So well known to my eyes and hands
So that now I discover anew.
The gentle swell of your hip. The dimple
At the base of your spine
And the graceful, half hidden buttocks below
Are refound, revisited as an explorer revisits
Places once new.
The initial wonder returns, melded now with memories
Both recent and sepia. A new wonder is born
And I savour it, here in the half light of dusk.