Pork-pie Hatred In Stoke
I hefted bricks of twenty pounds
Into a waiting skip
And bit her lower lip
She melted in my waiting arms
Collapsing to her knees
How poignant were her pleas!
The bricks themselves were not immune
To herpes or the clap
That waited in her lap
I melted in her waiting-room
Into a waiting chair
And bit her lower hair
The clap itself was not too shy
To crouch behind a wall
So subtle 'twas withal...
We melted quicklime, ounce by ounce
Into a pewter urn
That cooled through in a burn
The urn itself was Regency
Though caked wi' dry cement
Hence barely worth a cent
She turned her lips to other parts
To taste forbidden fruit
And melt her birthday suit
Those lips themselves were ruby
But crusted o'er with lime
That dulled all sense of time
She bared her soul and naked skin
And I did enter her
Without the least demur
The skin itself was scaly
With polyfilla caked
I ached, oh, how I ached!
I hefted bricks of twenty pounds
As I have said before
I kissed that putrid whore
She melted, and the dream was past
I caught her to my chest
My plaster-spattered vest
Contributors: | Kansas Sam, Apsley, loaf, Nym, F, Chevalier, Juan of the Pines, (trad). |
Poem finished: | 30th May 2006 by Nym. |