Post by martinshaw on Jun 18, 2011 0:48:05 GMT -5
Round one:
She’s got me in her sites,
her asthma finger
on the trigger,
shedding skin.
She wants me suffering,
a shot to the groin
in twofold agony,
with cold sweats
of a player
losing his winning streak.
I owe her
a life.
Seconds out: round two.
I’ve changed the locks,
battened the windows...
on guard
I am!
I use the peep holes I drilled
for next doors evening shower thrills,
those deformed ditties
in frosted windows,
a drying sensation.
She’s gonna get it now,
the wife I mean?
But mores to the point,
she’s not gonna get it,
my lovely house.
Round three:
There’s a knock,
then a thump!
?
The brother in law?
The hardest man on the planet,
in a room of naked boys.
No
hold on,
it’s Posty,
he always bangs twice.
A parcel awaits.
My video!
GREAT.
‘sign here.’
‘Thanks mate.’
Round four:
Slams the door!
Trousers down,
like puckered skin
to the floor.
Whoops!
Best put the video on
first.
Scuttles like a child,
thumb in mouth
and pooey pants,
over to the pushbutton tele.
Do we ever change?
Right it’s on,
Please be seated Mr. Shaw.
Soft bum
on softer coach,
then stretching fingers
limbering up,
my party pop knuckles
warming the palms.
I ordered a seedy romp
with toothless women,
a future walk on part
for the wife.
But wait?
What?
It’s her
with another,
a hairy
well hung,
Jungle Jim,
standing proud.
She’s down
on all fours,
with, Dogs D'Amour,
my favourite band
howling
in the background.
Her groans
are scornful,
but rhythmic
like a struggling engine
polluted
with water.
It’s Kangaroo juice.
She’s getting close,
only to recede
as the tables are turned
for pearly dewdrops
to drop.
There’s dew on the lily.
Round five:
I’m choking
the eosophogus,
like an escaped criminal madman,
standing up
on full throttle,
my machine gun fist
a blur,
like Agent Smith
in the Matrix.
I’m sowing this seed
the good old fashioned way,
with automatic buttocks
on recoil,
my sporadic gunfire
sprays
the wall mounted ducks.
Wifey
blows a kiss
to the camera.
“You’re going to get lonely,” she said
I put her on pause,
her glazed lips
and eyes,
icing on the cake.
Round six:
Not finished,
I do an Elvis impression,
and shoot the telly,
my mucous drapes
her curtain call.
She’s got me in her sites,
her asthma finger
on the trigger,
shedding skin.
She wants me suffering,
a shot to the groin
in twofold agony,
with cold sweats
of a player
losing his winning streak.
I owe her
a life.
Seconds out: round two.
I’ve changed the locks,
battened the windows...
on guard
I am!
I use the peep holes I drilled
for next doors evening shower thrills,
those deformed ditties
in frosted windows,
a drying sensation.
She’s gonna get it now,
the wife I mean?
But mores to the point,
she’s not gonna get it,
my lovely house.
Round three:
There’s a knock,
then a thump!
?
The brother in law?
The hardest man on the planet,
in a room of naked boys.
No
hold on,
it’s Posty,
he always bangs twice.
A parcel awaits.
My video!
GREAT.
‘sign here.’
‘Thanks mate.’
Round four:
Slams the door!
Trousers down,
like puckered skin
to the floor.
Whoops!
Best put the video on
first.
Scuttles like a child,
thumb in mouth
and pooey pants,
over to the pushbutton tele.
Do we ever change?
Right it’s on,
Please be seated Mr. Shaw.
Soft bum
on softer coach,
then stretching fingers
limbering up,
my party pop knuckles
warming the palms.
I ordered a seedy romp
with toothless women,
a future walk on part
for the wife.
But wait?
What?
It’s her
with another,
a hairy
well hung,
Jungle Jim,
standing proud.
She’s down
on all fours,
with, Dogs D'Amour,
my favourite band
howling
in the background.
Her groans
are scornful,
but rhythmic
like a struggling engine
polluted
with water.
It’s Kangaroo juice.
She’s getting close,
only to recede
as the tables are turned
for pearly dewdrops
to drop.
There’s dew on the lily.
Round five:
I’m choking
the eosophogus,
like an escaped criminal madman,
standing up
on full throttle,
my machine gun fist
a blur,
like Agent Smith
in the Matrix.
I’m sowing this seed
the good old fashioned way,
with automatic buttocks
on recoil,
my sporadic gunfire
sprays
the wall mounted ducks.
Wifey
blows a kiss
to the camera.
“You’re going to get lonely,” she said
I put her on pause,
her glazed lips
and eyes,
icing on the cake.
Round six:
Not finished,
I do an Elvis impression,
and shoot the telly,
my mucous drapes
her curtain call.