Tastier Than Sin


As I sit here sick and twisted
I dream of being anal fisted
By a man with hairy fingers
As he gives me cunnilingus.

He'll stick his fist right up my cranny
And make sweet juice gush from my fanny.
He'll ram it harder up my bum
Until the brown juice starts to run.

Then he'll use both hands simultaneously
And I'll scream as this will hurt quite copiously,
But after a while my sphincter will be fine
And then I'll be able to fit ten fists up there at a time.

Oh how my sunny face will beam
As I'm fisted by a rugby team . . .
I'm going to have to stop this here,
As this poem's really badly giving me the fear.

Oh dear.

Ode On Spring

Ode On Spring

Oh Spring, Oh Spring,
You make me sing!
You make me want
To stroke your thing,
And stick my finger
In your ring,
Oh Spring Oh Spring Oh Springy Spring.

Oh Sun, Oh Sun,
You make me run!
Across the fields,
All soaked in sun,
And bare my tits,
but not my bum,
Oh Sun Oh Sun Oh Sunny Sun.

Oh breeze Oh breeze,
You make me sneeze,
As you whistle sweetly
In the trees,
You taste just like
A piece of cheese
Oh breeze Oh breeze Oh breezey breeze

Oh flower, Oh flower,
You have such power,
You never look sad
Or dull, or dour,
You're lovely,
Just like Happy Hour,
Oh flower, oh flower, oh flowery flower.

Oh Sky, Oh Sky!
You are so high,
You're higher than
An apple pie,
Sometimes you make me
Want to cry,
Oh sky oh sky oh sky-y sky.

Oh Grass, Oh Grass,
Beneath my ass,
You are so green,
And unlike brass,
I wish that you
Were in my class,
Oh Grass, Oh Grass, Oh Grassy Grass.

Oh Cloud, Oh Cloud,
You're never loud,
You drift around,
so big and proud,
I'd be your friend,
But I'm not allowed,
Oh Cloud, oh Cloud, oh Cloudy Cloud.

Oh Lake, Oh Lake,
For goodness sake!
You give so much,
And never take,
If you could,
You'd bake a cake.
Oh lake, Oh lake, Oh lakey lake.

Oh Poem, Oh Poem,
You've just got going,
But you're a bit crap,
So I think I'll take a nap.

Why I Like My Sarong

Why I Like My Sarong

Oh, sing a sweet, sweet song
About my sarong!
It really is quite nice,
Not like boiled rice.
It comes from another country
And it isn't crunchy

I like the way it wraps
Around all my many flaps.
I like the way it hangs
From my many fangs.
I like the way it dangles
Like a million Bangles
Singing Walk Like An Egyptian
In the kitchen.

I like the way it ties
Around my ample thighs
And never quite looks right
Unless there is no light.
I like it in the morning
When I'm awake and yawning.
On my bannister it sits
Waiting to cover up my tits
So when I leave my flat
To go to the bathroom and that,
I will feel all right
And not give Ellis a fright.

Oh, how I love my sarong!
Some might say that this is wrong
To love a piece of material,
To find it so ethereal.
I like it more than cereal,
And I like that a lot
And I've liked it for so long,
But not as much
As my sarong.

The Pain Of Writing Shite

As I sit at my typewriter
I think my prose is getting shiter.
I don't know what I'm going to do
To stop my verse from being so poo.

Perhaps if I disappear mysteriously
Then my poems would be taken seriously.
If I vanished in a purple fart
Maybe they'd appreciate my subtle art.
But what can I do
About the poo
That comes out of my head
Of good stuff?

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dearie me.
Why do my poems smell of wee?
Why are they crappy and shitty and inane?
Why haven't I got a normal brain?
Is it because I'm quite insane?
Is that why I suffer so much literary pain?

People think that it is easy
Writing poetry that's cheesy.
Writing stories that make no sense
Makes me feel very tense.
My heart is that of a noble bard,
Not a block of lard!
So, why is it that whenever I try
To write a piece that will make them cry
And wish that they were dead,
Shite comes out instead?

Will I never, ever, ever
Compose a best seller?
Will I never write a book?
Will I never get a . . .

This is getting silly.
I must stick to the point.
Oh dear,
There isn't one.



There was a knock upon my door
as I laid me down to rest.
I tried but I could not ignore
the knock so I got dressed.
I made my way towards the sound,
its urgency grew greater,
and when I opened it I found
a short Italian waiter.

"I have here pizza, nice and hot,
and garlic bread supreme!
A calzone filled with cheese
beyond your wildest dream!
A fresh lasagne in a box;
it's tastier than sin!
And I'm going to eat it all myself
if you don't let me in."

I stood there for a minute
while my sleepy head awakened.
Then I told the little waiter
he must surely have mistakened
me for someone else;
perhaps a vicar or a Rasta,
someone who was peckish
and had phoned up for some pasta.

Well the waiter grew irater.
He was starting to turn pink.
He said, "I am not a take-away!
My God, what must you think?
I don't deliver pizzas
to just anyone you know.
Now let me in and let me get
this nosh-up on the go."

Bewildered and yet hungry
I opened up the door.
A little man he really was;
he was only 5 foot 4.
The piles of pizza boxes
were bigger than the man.
He said there were some more
when we had finished (in the van).

We stayed up for an hour
and stuffed ourselves with food,
and then he said "I go now.
To stay so long is rude!"
And up and off he toddled
and took his boxes too,
and first thing in the morning
I did a great big poo.

September 1998 - October 1999

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