I don’t give a monkey-nut for their prissy talk.
Sunday – forgive me, Lord – is an amiable time
to chase the chaste. After church of course.
But no unburdened smile or sweet kiss ever
from one starched lady of Llanbadarn
And me, so randy, I can hardly walk.
Give them boils, Lord, since none my needs assuage
– not even she whose nose seems like a chair
for spectacles! I ache. If only one, in luck,
roused me int he heather then Garwy himself
would stagger back envious and awestruck.
Lesbians, they must be. Give them pox, Lord, and age.
When, parasolled, they left the church slow-paced
along the gravel pathway, past the grand
shadow of the yew, I winked, I whispered.
Nun-faced they frowned their strait-laced Never!
So I, as true a stud as Garwy stand
near graves, full of sperm. Oh what a waste!