Let Me Pleasure You
Can I Be Your Whore?

Can I Be Your Whore?

Hey, Big Boy, you're so lovely,
You're lovely as can be.
Oh, how I wish your loveliness
Could be transfered to me.
I wouldn't have to worry
About myself no more.
Oh, yes, you're so, so lovely,
Can I be your whore?

I'd spread my legs so widely,
I'd pant with all my might,
I'd scream and scratch and pummel,
I'd keep you up all night,
I'd lick the floor you stood on,
I'd set your balls on fire.
Oh, please let me pleasure you,
It is my one desire.

I can see 'no' is your answer.
You're happy with your wife
And she would not be happy.
She'd kill you with a knife,
And I'd get into trouble.
I would be dumped for sure,
But, you are just so lovely!
Why can't I be your whore?

I'd only charge a penny
To taste your luscious flesh.
I'd put on kinky fishnets
And a dress made out of mesh.
I'd paint my lips bright crimson
And tease you with a feather,
And then I'd beat you senseless
With a horsewhip made of leather.

Oh spanky spanky spanky!
Oh spanky spank we go!
Could someone pass a hanky?
My god, I love you so!
It's true you are so lovely,
You're lovely as can be!
If I can't be your whore then can I
Make you a nice cup of tea?



There is a land not far away
where fairy folk did dance and play
Amidst sweet fields of daffodils
Within the sound of sparrow shrills
Atop of hills all green and grey
The fairies danced the night away
They sipped their wine through flower heads
Before retiring to their beds.

Until one day, so very tragic,
The fairies seemed to lose their magic!
Their little wands refused to cast
The smallest spell, they were aghast:

"Oh blow and bother! Dates and figs!
These wands are just a heap of twigs!
Although we wave with all our might
They do not work! Oh bother! Shite!"

They tried the cauldrons one by one
Not a single magic spell was done
And when one jumped into the sky
He found he could no longer fly!
He fell to earth and broke his neck
The others all went "flipping heck!
What ever now? What shall we do?"
There really was a big to-do.

The fairy chief said "Come! Don't shout!
We need to sort this problem out!
Our fairy charms have gone array
We need to get new jobs! Today!"

"New jobs?" asked the fairies,
"Whatever do you mean?
New jobs for us fairies?"
(They didn't seem too keen)

"Without our magic, what are we?"
Bellowed the chieftain, noisily,
"Just silly dwarves with stupid wings!
We need to do more useful things!"

So off they went, beside their mentor,
To visit the local employment centre
They all lined up, Oh! What a sight!
A hundred fairies, squeezed in tight.

The lady looked up, "Yes? name please!"
"Tinkerwimple, Flower and Breeze!
Tulip Flower and Satin Bow!"
The fairies sang, all in a row.

"There's nothing here for little folk!"
The lady said "You're all a joke!
You'll never find a proper job
You're such a funny little mob.
Now go away and don't come back!
You might get me the ruddy sack
They'll all think I have gone quite mad!
And that would be reeeeally bad."

One by one the folk signed on
There were no jobs, not even one.
They were just fairies, one big joke,
Whose magic had gone up in smoke.

And to this day, when it is dark,
You can see the fairies on the park,
Juggling fire and singing songs
As their days drag on and on.

And in the pub on summer days
They fritter all their dole away
On pints of beer and eighths of dope
To help the fragile fairies cope.

One day, perhaps, they'll go again,
To cast their spells upon us men,
Until that day we'll pay our tax
To keep the little folk in fags.

The fairies are no longer glum
They love their lives as hippy scum
It's hard to spot them now, they've grown!
They intermingle with our own.

So next time you see a smelly gipsy,
Who's full of shit and rather tipsy,
Spare a thought for fairy folk
Then kick his head in for being a doley sponger who smells.

My Affliction

I can't stop writing poems, no I really really can't.
I write them when you're with me and I write them when you aren't.
I write them in the kitchen, in the bath and on the loo,
These poems just keep coming and I don't know what to do.

I try to do some work but in my head I just hear rhyme,
It makes me write a load of Shite, it happens all the time.
I do try to ignore it but it just keeps getting worse,
This stupid fucking bastard wanking sodding shitting verse.

I'd cut off all my fingers if I thought that that would work,
But deep inside my brain I know the poetry would lurk,
And wanting for an outlet it would spew out of my gob,
And that would never do 'cause I could never get a job.

I'll go for a lobotomy! Could that provide a cure?
And then perhaps my poetry will be much more demure.
I won't find that I need to say 'Big Arse' or 'Tits' or 'bum'.
I'll just sit in my chair and let the dribble run and run.

No I can't stop writing poems and I don't know what to do,
I started writing this one in the middle of a poo,
And I tried to stop it coming but it came out all the same,
And so did the poem, much to my shame.

I can't stop writing poems, they just fall out of my brain,
I'm getting rather sick of it. It's driving me insane.
I'd much rather be normal, like a lawyer or a banker.
Oh wow! I think I'm cured! I can't think of anything to rhyme with 'banker'.

February - March 2000

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