ONE, TWO, THREE,
Susie-Lou's a master of bait and switch,
Wears flimsy scarlet skirts, not a stitch
Of underwear -- has tumbling curls of hair,
The most inviting into your soul stare:
Some swear she's been afrolic in their dreams
Before met in the flesh -- or so it seems
When she licks her lips with come-hither tongue,
Becomes rigid in her body as if stung:
Such projected desire blurs the vision,
Induces quiverings of inner fission!
Yes, a beginning that promises much:
One's aswoon and reeling before first touch!
But no further will a mere male foray
Into Susie's affection: it's foreplay
And endplay simultaneously.
In truth, Sue hungers for another she
At the moment of bothering a man,
Making him quiver any way she can:
Only when some dupe's in a huff
Does she enjoy diving for muff!
shut her office door to hide her tears --
Banker's dumped her, her lifestyle's in arrears:
Gone is Vale, taste of ski-trance in powder;
No more flings on the coast, hot prawn chowder;
Bye to Maui and the tall palms that sway;
Dining in France was bliss, but now? -- no way.
Yes, bye to the mere thought of getaway --
Not to mention nights spent in costly suites,
Being oft regaled with diamond ring treats --
The best box seats at shows, dazzling premiers,
Those ankle-length furs and envious sneers.
That's right, lifestyle's gone -- and much worse:
He's forwarded bills! What a curse!
Why, Lizzie, would I want to hear prattle
Concerning the bitch at work who tattled? --
Hear you decribe how the drab color scheme
Of your newly purchased place makes you scream?
Why this empty chattering, verbal fluff,
Instead of indulging in courtship stuff?
Why waste your tongue on words instead of touch,
Lizzie? Your eyes are bright, and promise much:
Why not deliver and gently quiver
That tongue of yours between my lips, shiver
While embracing me hard? And then I'll hoist
Your skirt and slip my tongue into the moist
'Til you're too rapt to do any talking;
Yes, my tongue'll do plenty of walking
'Til you forget your very name!
So shush, Lizzie: let's play this game!
Sasha loves to prance in short scarlet skirts;
Either that, or bright patterned polo shirts
With nothing -- no panties -- on underneath;
And all very snug fits, like knife in sheath.
But don't attempt to rope in this cute Miss,
Hope for caresses, or even a kiss:
Her blood runs colder than an arctic stream;
She hates love-fun, enough to make you scream.
Yes, Sasha's skilled at flirting and teasing
But it's only show, without the pleasing.
Wish to bed Chrissy? It's easy:
She gets randy, sluttish, sleazy
At utterance of "I love you!"
Not a chance the two of you'll screw
If you don't keep love-talk on tap:
So lie, my friend, and taste her sap!
Ragberd dresses well, puts on prima-donna airs,
Is easily intimidated, always glares
When contradicted -- as if anyone could dare
Question his authority in matters of taste.
Ragberd imagines no woman wants to be chaste
After glimpsing his conceited, goo-goo eyed face;
Supposes himself one irresistible gent,
Resides downtown, pays an astronomical rent:
"It's worth it," he declares, "I could never abide
An unfashionable neighborhood -- suicide
Would be preferable." But the last girl who saw
Ragberd's abode ran screaming as if from the maw
Of hell. Why? Seems his dream home's a hovel,
Foul basement where mice and roaches grovel
For scraps of garbage on a floor
Unwashed since the second world war.
Missy loves conflict and has the temper
To prove it -- she knows how to pout, whimper,
Sulk, hold grudges, put on wounded faces;
How to be cold, aloof, wipe all traces
Of regard from her voice and eyes alike;
How to show disgust in the way she strikes
A pose, fling rage with the tone of a strut
Across the room. But how Missy does rut
Between arguments: such sexual pearls
Aren't found in the arms of peace-loving girls.
What an enervating chore
Is hearing a drone-on bore
Assert his philosophy
Is far above the degree
Of others' comprehension --
With many a smug mention
Of the uniqueness of his life
That's free of self-doubt and strife.
Well, it's not exactly a lie:
If I had the dead vacant eyes
Of a pig's head in a freezer
Or some drunken stupor geezer
I'm sure stress would release its grip,
And all days be one long sip
Of safety, satisfaction, peace:
But I'd rather be deceased.
Randy smells like dead skunk, rotting pig shit;
Still, he gets plenty of ass, hot tight clit.
Why? Seems his cock's an easy ten-inches,
Always hard, that reliably drenches
Like a garden hose turned on high,
Gets the most frigid girls to cry.
flailing her hair, screaming
As if at sight of blood streaming
Over the floor from a gashed limb:
What's upset feisty seraphim?
It seems she's gained two solid pounds.
My God! Misery knows no bounds:
She'd rather be bitten by hounds!
ONE, TWO, THREE,
© 2001-2009 by Sliptongue
All rights reserved.