From far and wide, from foreign lands, from far flung distant shores,
They journeyed forth upon their quests, each with one accord.
By stormy seas, by howling gales, by treacherous mountain hike,
Rich and poor, young and old, strong and frail alike.
To seek the one who harboured in a special hidden place
An oracle of information, wisdom, lore and grace.
On they pressed through trial and test, for all their fortunes hinged
On the sage and mystic prophecies of Mrs Milford's minge.
Mrs Milford's mystic minge was known the whole world through.
Oft spoken of, yet seldom seen, all knew what it could do.
Droughts and earthquakes, storms and wars, predicted with precision.
Towards it kings and queens would flock when faced with indecision.
From "Should I go to war with France?" to "Would I suit a fringe?"
They knew they'd find their answer deep in Mrs Milford's minge.
Even at age 92, her minge a mangled muff,
All who gazed inside it found the answers to their stuff.
And then one day a callow youth, acned, scurfed and gaunt,
Was troubled by a question that by night and day did haunt.
He'd heard the legends of the fabled gammon flaps of truth
And knew that he must venture there while he still had his youth,
For many who had undertaken this precarious quest
Had perished on their journey even though they did their best,
But this young man was confident he could achieve this feat
As Mrs Milford fortunately lived across the street.
He carefully packed a rucksack and some sandwiches for lunch,
Then he set upon his voyage, for to satisfy his hunch.
He journeyed far, o'er kerbs and gravel, porches, street and floor,
Until, three minutes later, he arrived outside her door.
Exhausted, tired and weary, and knackered and worn out,
The spotty youth first rang the bell, and then he gave a shout -
"Mrs Milford, let me in! I need to see your fanny!"
He was quite confident she would. After all, she was his granny.
Standing on the doorstep, the poor lad was left hanging.
No sign of life, no sounds within, despite his constant banging.
Then after what seemed quite an age, the door did open wide.
"Who are you?" responded the old dear that stood inside.
"It's me," the lad said, "Tommy. Remember? You saw me yesterday."
Mrs Milford stared in space and looked quite far away.
"I knew a Tommy," she said, "during the war. Are you he?"
"No, I am your grandson. Let me in. I'll make some tea."
So, Mrs Milford stood aside to let the young lad in,
She smelt of mould and lavender; incontinence and gin.
He noticed from her hairy lip there hung a string of drool,
As she made him take his trainers off, and hung up his cagoule.
Then shuffling to the kitchen on her old arthritic feet,
She asked him - would he like some tea, or a bit of cake to eat?
But Tommy wasn't interested in her Mr Kipling pies.
He knew he had to get his head between his grandma's thighs.
"Granny," Tommy said with a grave and urgent air,
"Yes, dear," she replied as she sat down in her chair.
"I need your help on something," he continued with his patter,
"But what I have to ask you is a rather delicate matter..."
But Mrs Milford sat with a glazed look upon her face
As Tommy chuntered on she seemed to stare out into space
And just he was going to ask for a shufty at her fanny
A horrid realisation turned him pale as he said, "Granny...?"
Mrs Milford's wrinkly hand had disappeared from sight,
And when poor Tommy spotted it, it gave him quite a fright.
Deep inside her Marks and Spencers bangers it had strayed,
Her eyes got even dreamier, and Tommy was afraid.
But just as he was blushing a deep reddish tangerine,
Thinking that his granny was just flicking off her bean,
A strange blue light came shining from her urine-sodden drawers,
And her magic mystic fish flaps opened up like secret doors.
And there before young Tommy, oh, what an awesome sight!
Tremendous wrinkly meaty drapes that flanked the dazzling light,
And as they flapped and flailed about as if under their will
They discharged a fetid odour that made Tommy feel quite ill.
The flaps they curled and stretched and rolled, and moved in curious ways
Which formed into a mouthpiece like it had something to say.
A hellish, rumbling sound came forth which settled to a hum,
And a voice of deepest timbre spoke just one word: "Come."
As if in some hypnotic trance, the boy began to walk
Towards the pendulous swinging flaps of Mrs Milford's pork.
And hence out spewed an organ which was neither heart or lung,
But more akin to carpet fashioned from an ox's tongue.
And as he stood upon this rug of crudely uncoiled beef,
His eyes grew wide, perhaps with shock, or maybe disbelief.
He had a sense that this would be a strange and thrilling ride,
As the fleshy thing jerked suddenly, and he was thrown inside.
Now we all know what it's like when at some ungodly hour
We're in the waste disposal chamber of an abbatoir
With slimy blooded offal and discarded hunks of meat
Scattered all about us... Oh? Then it's just me.
Well, Tommy raised his head and took in a sight like that.
And he stank like satan's cesspit and he felt a total prat.
And then the voice boomed down on him, menacing and horrible,
And echoed all about him, "Welcome to the Oracle!"
Tommy didn't like it here one single little bit,
He thought he saw a vulva, and, oh God - is that a clit?
Sodden grey old pubic hair in every nook and cranny,
It somehow didn't feel right, being there inside his granny.
But it would all be worth it in a minute, Tommy knew,
As he scraped a bit of granny's smeg from underneath his shoe,
The Mystic Minge of wisdom with its globules and gunge,
Would sort it, then he could escape his gran's disgusting clunge.
"Thomas Harold Milford," announced the minging muff,
Blimey, Thomas ruminated, this snatch knows its stuff.
"The reason I have summoned you I can in you confide,
I sadly must inform you that your granny has just died.
This, of course, has consequences, very dire for me.,
For I cannot sustain myself in a corpse you see.
If I am to save myself and not give up the ghost,
The only way I can survive is in another host."
Tommy was bewildered as he blinked up at the bean.
The reason he'd been summoned? what on earth did this twat mean?
He'd come to ask a question, of his very own volition,
To ask the mystic minge some stuff had been his one ambition.
Now no sooner had he spread those flaps and forced his way inside,
He was being told his granny had now really badly died?
"I do not understand..." he said, the fanny gave a guff,
"Oh trust me, little Tommy. You will find out soon enough."
"B-but, what I want to know," Tommy Milford stammered,
"I know what you want to know!" the entity then hammered,
"For I know everything. I am the seer of all things,
All that's gone, all that's now, and what the future brings.
You didn't come here just to ask about your maths homework
You're different, and you know it, and now that's begun to irk.
You want to know about your bollocks, and why you have got three.
Well, let me tell you, Thomas boy - that third one is for me!"
Poor Tommy's face went deathly white, his legs had turned to jelly,
So long had he misunderstood what lay beneath his belly.
He knew that most folk just had two, but he was not the same,
A third one nestled there as well, he'd wondered what was to blame.
But as he sat and pondered this, in his gran's decaying minge,
He thought "what impropriety this vag means to impinge!"
He turned around and tried to run, and slipped on something wet,
A putrid-smelling, nasty 35-year-old Lil-let,
And just above his head there swung the remnants of a squash,
"Oh God," he said "My gran was sick, and she really didn't wash."
And then the pure blue light returned, but Tommy wasn't glad.
It came from all directions and then focused on his nad,
The third and strange bewildering one he'd come to acertain
Its purpose, now regretting badly that he ever came.
Brighter, brighter grew the light, as from the gods on high,
And Tommy's third nad rumbled like a rocket to the sky,
And as the light subsided, at his nad he took a peek,
And very nearly passed out as he heard the damn thing speak.
"Muhahahahahaha, your third ball is MINE now.
Folks will come from near and far to ask it why or how.
You'll see, they'll flock, they'll come in droves, they'll never let you be.
They'll make you drop your trousers too, so they can talk to me.
Your life will be a pile of crap, just like your poor dead granny.
Do you think she really wanted a mystic talking fanny?
Talking of that crusty witch, I never thought... oh dear.
How the hell are we going to get the bastard out of here?"
"You brought me here! You can get me out!" Tommy yelled out loud,
"It's all to do with that strange light, though I don't know quite how.
That's when all the weird shit happens. I don't like it one bit,
But one thing that I think I need is one last piece of it."
He grasped his cursèd jizz bag and squeezed with all his might
And, Christ, you should have heard his screams and seen his face turn white.
But soon the light appeared again and shone its shafts of blue
And Tommy felt no longer small, because he grew... and grew...
His arms and legs got thick and long, his head got big and rounder,
His toes and fingers soon outweighed a McDonalds quarter pounder,
His once-small bum expanded fast, his nose and eyes got bigger,
His ears were huge, I'm sure if you had saw them you would snigger.
His nose pressed flat against the flaps of Mrs Milford's fanny,
And soon he was so big he burst right out of his dead granny.
He stood among the slime and guts, the bits of flap and clitty,
And as he looked at her, he felt a stir, "Ooh. She looks quite pretty..."
Now we all know what it's like when at some ungodly hour,
Despite our better judgement and all that's in our power,
We end up with a right old hideous fucked up rancid tart
Who's completely off her napper, and you just want to depart,
And then she crashes out and lies unconscious on the bed,
And looks all calm and peaceful and you think 'Why not?' instead.
And then you get excited and pretend she's dead with glee.
Aw, come now surely, this time you can't say it's only me.
Well try and hold that in your thoughts, then change it round a bit.
Imagine she's your granny, dead, with blood smeared on her tits.
Imagine her vagina is a broken, messed-up blob,
And spittle coats the hairs around her wrinkled-up old gob.
Picture her old scaly skin, all tough just like a tortoise,
And her body getting hard as it succumbs to rigamortis
Just think about the putrid smell of dried-up rotting blood
And tell me that you wouldn't want to hit that with your wood.
Oh, yes indeed, we've all been there. Let no man here deny it.
Don't try to tell us otherwise; we're sure not going to buy it.
So let's not judge too harshly our young Tommy for this deed,
For after all he's had a bloody awful day. Agreed?
And who knows when he last enjoyed a wank, blow job or shag?
So I for one will not begrudge him doinking this dead hag.
Let him lie upon his gran on this her final day,
But if you do not mind, I think I'll look the other way.
So Tommy buttoned down his pants and pulled out his big wanger,
Then contemplated sticking it inside that clapped-out banger,
But after some pontificating over points quite minor,
He noticed that his gran no longer had a whole vagina,
Just little bits of torn-up flesh around a bombed-out crater,
So he sadly put his knob away and sighed "oh, maybe later."
But then he spied her wrinkled tits, all bloody, stiff and dank,
And thought ah what the bastard, I can always have a wank.
But as he got his cock back out his woes were not yet over.
Voices entering the house! He dived behind the sofa
From which he spied four suited men, devious and sinister,
And one of them spoke solemnly, "This is the place, prime minister."
David Fuckin' Cameron! gasped Tommy neath his breath.
"Something's wrong sir, Mrs Milford's gone and met her death."
"Shit!" said David Cameron, "I can't consult her labia,
So how the fuck can we work out what to do with Libya?"*.
David Cameron stood and scratched his chin in circumspection,
When suddenly before him he did spy his own reflection.
He admired his face, his pink fat lips, his luscious wiry hair,
He knew of all world leaders, there was no one quite as fair
But then his aide said, "David sir, we need to make a plan.
Please tell me why you're staring at this fast-decaying gran?
With septic gash and butchered flaps it couldn't look much grimmer."
"oh sorry," David did reply. "I thought it was a mirror."
"Mrs Milford's freshly dead," the aide went on to say,
"Which means The Entity's new host cannot be far away.
Bring in the Cleggs!" At that command a junior suit went out,
And came straight back with six Nick Cleggs milling all about.
"Dinner time! Oh, Entity! Come out and have your feast!"
Tommy's tertiary testicle was twitching like a beast.
"Oh mystic One, all wise, all knowing, come to us I beg,
Reveal to us your presence! Here, have a Clegg."
The Entity could hide no more, it bulged from Tommy's boxers,
It hadn't dined on such a feast since that dozen Liam Foxes.
Damn that David Cameron and his generous impropriety,
Now it would have to leave this nad, and join the Big Society.
So hungrily it tugged and pulled and gave a great big cough,
Until at last Tommy was free, despite his bollock hanging off.
The Entity did dine on Cleggs, with which it first did wrestle.
Then, all filled up, it looked around to find another vessel.
The Entity sniffed and snorted, and took in all those present.
Which of these would be the most appropriate for his presence?
Who possessed a safe abode, a platform for his teaching,
One which would not rouse suspicion when he started preaching?
One from which the gullible would listen to his words,
A place from which a huge amount already had been heard?
The Thing knew this was obvious, and thanked his lucky stars
As he went for David Cameron and shot right up his arse.
Now many folks, from near and far, do travel days and nights,
To Number 10, to hear the PM, talk out of where he shites.
The Oracle of everything, they take in every word.
They breathe in every fart he does, and feast on every turd.
But little do the people know of how he got so clever,
Of Mrs Milford, Tommy or The Entity's endeavour.
So next time you see Cameron and his drivel makes you cringe,
Spare a thought for Mrs Milford and her mystic minge.
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