A poor poem...
...but reality often doesn't make for eloquence.
'Six'
As I hunker in the bunker
my resolve begins to waver.
Six months! Not sure I can take it.
Six months? Maybe i'll make it.
Swish
swoosh
silk stockings
sweep
swiftly
down.
Twing-twang-thong,
snap-crack-bra-strap
are sounds now alien to me.
No more jiggy-jiggy -
I need a new exercise regimen
to keep myself busy.
Only sweating when eating raw chillies,
i'll be forsaking the taste of honey-soaked fillies.
But I gotta keep this quiet lest my friends line up
and deride my woman-free diet.
Thankfully, I snore the sleep of a contented drunk,
welcoming the erotic dreams that give me cause
to awaken in the midst of a six month spunk-funk.
8th May 2005, The Planet Kleenex
posted by Woz at 7:01 pm
2 Comments:
Yes O.K so I pressed the wrong tag.
I`m sure soon you will find a fine lady ,
or not so refined if you fancy.
For a flirtfull frolick could be a sexual jamboree!
Please no water games you don`t want to take the pee.
12:46 am
Patrick
A well-proportioned, bell-bottom wearing, walnut-crackin' buttcheek-barin', mud-wrestling transexual midget (fisting - with genuine stepladder) will suit me just fine.
...and yes, they need to bring their own water pistol.
But in the meantime, celibacy will do just fine.
Thanks for commenting, Fearless
6:54 pm
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