Hitherto had the hamlet suspected Clem
Of lewd conduct with citrus in Bethlehem,
But their slurs, she averted,
And tartly asserted,
“When life gives you lemons, have sex with them.”
On a tuffet she lay,
As each dwindling ray,
Kissed her muffet like summer’s last lover.
Splayed without care,
And as perfectly bare,
As the autumn-blown branches above her.
Hand on her thigh,
Did she drip like the eye
Of a storm, calm, before its ascent.
Moans from her mouth,
Sent the birds soaring south
For the winter of her sweet content.
Like a spider,
Her fingers crept nimbly inside her,
And tickled her pink till she’d swoon.
At each lithe, little twiddle,
She’d fit like a fiddle,
Strung tautly, yet just out of tune.
Pleasure’s perennial petals
Fell gently and settled
By the bed of her chasm,
With each season that came,
So came she, in the same
Way one might compare apples to orgasms.
The joy it would bring
Her to usher in spring,
Made her flesh and her spirit both swell.
Delighted, she found,
Flowers bloomed from the ground,
In the spots where her honeydew fell.
Of the joust, proclaimed Gallant Sir Guffins,
“With each vict’ry, my fortitude toughens!”
In his cups, though, he’d say,
Where his heart truly lay,
Was in farting upon English muffins.
And as errant air blared from his fanny,
Bid the Knight (with no absence of canny)
To his squire “Egad!
Henceforth, butter these, lad,
Ere ye nooketh them into mine cranny!”
Returned from our ride,
Carl, Catherine and I’d,
Always find ourselves in disarray.
Two little girls,
Penny loafers and curls,
‘Top a mud-smattered Clydesdale valet.
Bedraggled with crud,
Would we scrub, soap and sud
At the comely colt’s calico coat.
Stood he seventeen hands,
Of a thoroughbred strand
(And of Flemish descent, I might note).
One day it was so,
As we buffed from below,
A gargantuan phallus unsheathed.
A portentous projection,
The equine erection,
“Clean the penis!” my friend brusquely breathed.
So we lathered and gripped,
But we slipped as it whipped.
Washing horse hog, it seemed, was a feat.
When we mustered our might,
Firmly latching on tight,
The steed’s staff swept us clean off our feet.
“Don’t let go!” Catherine cried,
And for dear life, we tried
To hold on to the renegade rod.
To the cock, did we cling,
To and fro, would we swing,
Our foray, we feared fatally flawed.
Abrupt came the spasm,
Sheer stallion orgasm.
Like two little dolls, were we tossed.
Unawares of the scope,
And presuming ‘twas soap
In which suddenly then we’d been glossed.
Now Forty years gone,
Fully grown and moved on,
Since that cosmically curious day.
Only just twenty-eight
Since sweet Cat met her fate,
Crushed to death ‘neath a large Cleveland Bay.
By her grave I reflect,
As I pay my respect,
And I lay down a wreath of bay laurel.
Every now and again,
Do I think of my friend,
And a calico Clydesdale called Carl.
As Sisyphus took a piss into the wind
‘Neath the boulder, eternal his place,
His decision, at once, did he wish to rescind,
When the warm assault seasoned his face.
Dejected, defeated, and dripping with pee,
Compounded belabored humility.
His abysmal existence doomed always to be
But a sick exercise in futility.
Ineffectual, vain, unavailing, at that,
Was this feckless, ill-fated Olympian.
But the way that shit just seemed to roll for this cat
Was decidedly duly Sisyphean.
Her lips were wet,
Her hips wide-set,
Her voice rasped deep and coarse.
Her eyes were shrewd,
Her thighs tattooed,
Her tits a tour de force.
Her scent of beer,
She bent my ear,
She’d recently divorced.
With glee I reeled,
When she revealed
The absence of her drawers.
My world a blur,
“Would you prefer,”
I slurred “My place or yours?”
But once inside,
She robbed me blind,
That two-bit Trojan Whorse.
‘Twas midday before Christmas and Lachlan MacLinner,
Was out hunting game for his family’s dinner.
Plaid stockings clung tight to his legs with great care,
Whilst, not one, but two hats, hid his red, thinning hair.
At his kilt did the cruel winter wind bite and tear,
Making prunes of a norm’ly more pendulous pair.
And though the thick woodland lent cloak to his prey,
Onward still Lachlan trudged; He could spare no delay.
For his wife, Osla Jean, was an ill-tempered shrew,
Like a banshee she’d shriek till her face would turn blue,
So a-hunting he’d go if it took him all night,
If he brought home no supper, his name would be shite.
But just then, from the brush, a slight stirring arose,
Tightly holding his breath, as he stared, Lachlan froze,
For his eyes had befallen a supple young ewe,
“Why, this cloven hoofed beauty will certainly do!”
At his favorite bludgeoning cudgel, he knuckled,
Then fondled the handle and gleefully chuckled,
And gently knelt down in a Bonnie Bloom bed,
As visions of lamb chops danced ‘round in his head.
When at once something happened he couldn’t explain,
Sharply, synapses fired and popped in his brain,
And where once stood his prized, would-be, holiday meal,
Bore abruptly to he, then a different appeal.
His face became flushed and his hands became clammy,
His eyes blurred and swam as he ogled the lammy
Who understood well what would soon come to pass,
As their gaze met, at last, in the tall Highland grass.
Well, the sheep barely noticed his billy club clatter
To the ground with a pound, matting flowers much flatter.
Then “fergive me,” he plead to the stars up above,
“But blessin’ me bagpipes, I think I’m in love.”
So he lifted his kilt, and he tendered his tool,
Grabbed a fistful and pulled on the delicate wool,
Well-aware, midst the whirlwind of shearling and plaid
Of the best rack of lamb that he ever had had.
Then he shivered and grunted, and sighed and he coughed,
As he loosened his grip on her coat ever soft.
And mopping his brow from beneath his two hats,
Lachlan laughed, “Jaysus Christ, I ‘bout soiled me spats!”
Then he struck up a match on a thick Birnam Oak,
Drawing in a deep breath for to light up his smoke.
But his lighthearted mood quickly faded to dark,
And he swung at the oak landing blows in the bark.
Wincing, he cradled his bloodied left hand,
His tortured lament echoed out through the land,
“I have never known love like I’ve felt for this flower,”
“I cannae go home, I just dooon’t have the power!”
So he stood in the snowbank, a Scotsman divided,
Projecting each posture his pickle provided,
Though whatever position he chose to pursue,
Would be equally horrid a hullabaloo.
When, famished and frozen, and falling apart,
He felt a soft tickle that warmed his cold heart.
As the lamb licked his raw, wounded hand, Lachlan knew
Precisely just that which he needed to do.
The townsfolk flocked ‘round as he made his return,
“Lachlan’s braved through the storm!” the mob audibly churned.
“Were it cold old enough fer ye?” dogged Dougal Dundeather.
“Oh, shut it, ye bawbag,‘tis fine Scottish weather.”
Then from over his shoulder he hoisted his prize,
And brought it down softly before widened eyes.
“Ye doss lucky bas.” Hamish Henderson said,
“Tha’s a foin piece o’ mutton there, Lachy m’lad.”
“But tell me, MacLinner, just how did ye foind,
Such a right, bonnie beast in the snow?” Hamish pined.
Then Lachlan MacLinner grinned sheepishly, sighing,
And shrugging he answered “Oh, quite satisfying.”
When Alice watched space shuttles launch on TV,
There would pool in her panties a puddle.
As she gobbled up popsicles, weakened of knee,
Would her fair, freckled skin flush and ruddle.
‘Neath her pillow went pickles and cold cobs of corn,
Troves of Twinkies amassed ‘mongst her socks,
Wide-eyed neighbors watched on, once, when Alice, one morn,
Chased the Weinermobile fifteen blocks.
Funk & Wagnalls defines “Phallophilia” as
“A neurosis (one, often erotic)
Characterized by compulsions,” it says,
“Which beleaguer the smitten psychotic.”
Evidently, those stricken are apt to display
(As established in case study “Alice”)
“A proclivity toward,” the text goes on to say,
“That which holds or pertains to the phallus.”
Well, the Washington Monument made her toes curl,
Pisa’s Tower too, Lean, long, and powerful.
“Oh, had these erections but arms,” gushed the girl,
Dreaming how the two might Eifel Tower her.
So, although the cigar on which Freud’s claim lay base,
Was, in fact, often just a cigar,
It would seem that we deem this, in Alice’s case,
A fallacious notion thus far.
I awoke with a start, when ahead the bus forged
Down the street when I noticed, aghast,
That my member, with blood, was now fully engorged,
And a raging hard-on had amassed.
Try as I might to diminish the tent
In my trousers with unsexy thoughts,
The recalcitrant ‘rection refused to relent,
And the bus had gone well past my stop.
Sighing surrender, I leered at my lap,
“It appears that you’ve won this round, mate.”
Defeated, I drifted back into my nap,
Distant throbbings began to abate.
When again I awoke to my bus seat, ensconced,
Though my lap-dragon lay in remission,
Other patrons had moved far away in response
To the diesel [nocturnal] emissions.