‘Twas the night before Christmas and, Upon our abode, Festive lights were agleaming, Upon Marsworth Road. The stockings were hung, By the chimney with thought, And up on the mantle, A small glass of port… And a mince pie for Santa, And carrots and fruits, For his faithful reindeer, Such elegant brutes. And down in the kitchen, The dog in his bed, Gave a deep sigh, And lowered his head. While I in my Jim jams, And him in the buff, Passed out for the night, After more than enough. Then outside the window, Arose a loud THUD, As something, who knew what? Made contact with mud. My heavy eyes opened, My heart gave a patter, I crawled to the curtain, To see what was the matter. From up on the first floor, The lawn looked absurd, With yellowing patches and, A sprinkling of turd. And right in it’s middle, A road kill, a tangle, Of reindeer and Santa, All at the wrong angle. And Santa was wiping, His boot with a list As he glared at the window, And shook a small fist. One reindeer, his nose red, Was struggling to rise, And gifts of all sizes, Rained down from the skies. Eventually, upright, The gallant old team, Made it up to the roof, where, They could not be seen. But I heard them arrive, And I heard Santa shout, From the fireplace, Something about port causing gout. Then back up the chimney and, Into the mist, The sleigh lurched and twisted, Perhaps he was pissed.
When I was a teen, still absorbent,
My friend and I would gather,
Our coins and get a magazine.
We would sit on a bench – slatted, hard,
Or on a bank, littered with Mars wrappers,
The pages lying across our knees,
Glossy and exciting, promising
Lives we would never live.
Perfect bodies and laughing faces,
Set in time.
A feature, not physical, was keen on hygiene.
Always dry under your breasts it implored,
And later, I explored with my fingers,
That part of my body, and wondered,
Where water might linger beneath or between.
Now I know!
Damask and canary,
Brushing my legs,
They dance in soft air in their thousands, with devout faces that watch the sun wherever it hangs.
Ecstatic worshipers, giving more attention than my small students.
I dawdle through humming heat, searching for brave orchids among the tender vetch and yolk-ish buttercups.
Butterflies: small, blue, copper, brimstone-yellow,
Dive across my path like dancing petals.
Beside me, the dog’s breath chuffs like a desperate steam engine.
Exhausted, leaking sweat from his tongue and yet,
Determined to chase the ball.
This ‘pome’ was written by a good friend, whose hobby is writing what she calls ‘ditties’. This particular piece made me laugh, and mirrors my own sentiments concerning the book in question.
Now, desire and arousal are highly subjective,
But reading this book left me feeling defective,
Just what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I feel turned on?
Don’t the sex scenes apparently please everyone?
I flicked through for ages to find the good bits,
But calling underwear ‘panties’ just left me in fits,
And her constant asides (in italics) and swearing,
Were rather repetitive, cheesy and wearing:
“Oh sh…, oh f…, he’s so jolly amazing,
I’m throbbing, I’m arching, I’m on fire, I’m just blazing.”
I’m glad for you Ana that you had a great time,
But for me your adventures were quite anodyne:
Your endless succession of fabulous screwing,
Of licking and bending, and sucking and chewing.
For me, as a tool (!) it just failed to work,
I thought Mr G. seemed a bit of a jerk.
I’m not against dominance, bondage or pain,
But the writing just didn’t ignite my sex flame.
Alas, it failed to provide what I needed,
And although Ana gasped, and submitted, and pleaded,
Her pleasure and plight left me feeling quite cold,
It wasn’t erotic, it wasn’t well told.
But desire and arousal are highly subjective,
And hurray for the ladies who find grey shades effective,
Lucky them! It’s so great to feel sexy and wet,
For me it was giggling that provoked a slight sweat.
I wanted excitement, I found it quite boring,
The story, the writing, I’m just not adoring…
But good luck to Miss James and to all who discover,
There are hundreds of things to inflict on a lover.
(copyright Sue Nicholls. Just ask and link back if you want to use it)
I’ve lost the urge for cooking, I think I’m round the bend,
I love to eat and entertain my family and friends,
But when I think about it, it’s not the will to sup,
I’ve lost, Oh no not that at all, it’s the b….y washing up!
If I were rich, apart from having chauffeur, plane and pilot,
I’d have a maid to wash and launder all my pots and privates,
He or she would live next door and like a glass of wine,
I’d cook a sumptuous dinner and invite her round to dine,
And as the night drew to a close, the greatest of my wishes,
Would be fulfilled as I relaxed and he washed up the dishes.