Compulsive Fondling By Men Of Gentility
She checked its lock a dozen times
And then a dozen more
Within it were a thousand dimes
Earned while she'd been a whore
She thought it not the worst of crimes
She'd hated being poor
All she had were raunchy rhymes
Written by Al Gore
She hid it under seven sheets
As she'd been told to do
Then counted slowly - thirty beats
And very swiftly drew
The curtains with their many pleats
Their fringes and froufrou
Blocking noise from city streets
(Resuming her voodoo)
She closed the doors, all seventeen
Said a prayer to Ishtar
Ensured that she would not be seen
By those who haunt the bar
(Those types are rough and mean)
But she'd left one door ajar!
And armed with just a magazine,
There ventured a hussar
She screamed aloud, say twenty times
But no-one heard a sound
While from afar cathedral chimes
Were heard, as she was drowned
In silent rapture; he, betimes
As cunning as a hound,
Committed several minor crimes
But never could be found
| Contributors: | Kansas Sam, Roland, N, F, Beefy. |
| Poem finished: | 27th August 2004 by N. |