THIS IS PART OF EDNA's "randyhornbag" EROTICA SERIES
(and a learned one too!)

*****
dildas
dildat
dildamus
dildatis
dildant

the latin class held its breath
the teacher must be a ****
or just spaced out on quaaludes
and then Miss explained
"dildare* is the verb "to have fun
by yourself" and remember girls
it takes the accusative case
as in "ave sandra, vulvam tuam hodie dildam"+

are emotions, feelings

or is feelings, emotions

either way, quit playing with them

I don’t live in a lie; I live in a version of the truth.

I drink and I drink until plastered.
For drinking is one art I've mastered.
It takes all my dough
To stay this drunk though,
So buy me a drink you cheap *******.

I've manned the Christmas Kettle
Every year for twenty seasons
I don't tell people why I do it,
But, you know I have my reasons

It's makes me feel so special
Doing something that's just right
I man it from round 5 till 12
And almost every night

It gets cold out there ringing
My bell, for all to hear
I do it for my charity
One I hold so dear

Each year I've been out hustling
Getting more each year than last
I don't know how long I'll keep it up
The time's gone by so fast

I don't do lights at home at all
I do not have a tree
But I'm out there with my kettle
Ringing loud where folks can see

This year it was amazing
I brought in much more than before
I changed where I was ringing
I was not out by a store

The folks at where I donate
couldn't believe how much I got
In fact they got rid of my kettle
And gave me a large ***

It's the most they've ever had brought in
By any volunteer
I know it will be hard to beat
But, I'll try again next year

I'll tell you how I did it
I didn't use a gun or knives
I just rang my bell outside a strip bar
And told the men I'd tell their wives

Seems to work a treat for  me
I keep their secret and don't tell
And they pay me off in fifties
I just stand and ring my bell.

Tell us what you're going do tonight, mama.
There must be someplace you can go
In the middle of the tall drinks and the drama,
there must be someone you know.

God knows, you're looking good enough,
but you're so smooth and the world's so rough.
You might have something to loose.
Oh, no, pretty mama, what you going
do in those shoes?

Got those pretty little straps around your ankles
Got those shiny little chains around your heart.
You go to have your independence
but you don't know just where to start.

Desperation in the singles bars
all those **** offs in their fancy cars.
you can't believe your reviews.

Oh, no, you can't do that,
once you started wearing those shoes

They're looking at you, leaning on you
Tell you anything you want to hear
They give you tablets of love
They're waiting for you
They got to score you
Your handy with a shovel and so sincere
Ooh, they got the kids gloves on

You just want someone to talk to
They just want to get their hands on you
You get whatever you choose
Oh, no, you can't do that,
Once you started wearing those shoes.

Why yes, I dated Taylor Swift
And no, she didn't write a song on it
I'm not quite sure what that means
Unless it is she still likes me

That might be the explanation why
I catch her out of the corner of my eye
It makes perfect sense now I believe
That Taylor Swift is stalking me

When she found out that I like to rock
She went straight from Country into Pop
Any country bumpkin can plainly see
That Taylor still has eyes for me

When I'm out shopping at the Grocery store
And I catch her sneaking down isle 4
Taylor girl you can't fool me
Your not only here for the Pickled Beets

The other day my car dinged low on fuel
So I pulled in for Petro and to check the oil
You'll never guess who's pumping gas
Do you really even need to ask

And when it is I'm home alone
There's that ring of the late night call
With heavy breathing on the end of the phone
To the tune of Shake It Off

I'm a bit more worried than I am flattered
She seems these days Mad as a Hatter
Who after all this would not believe
That Taylor Swift is stalking me

Shall I compare thee to a Winter’s night ?
Thou art more ugly and more bitter cold:
Soft fogs do wrap the vestiges of light,
And winters lease hath all too long a hold:
Sometimes too cold the hand of hell can feel,  
And rarely is her blackness ever lit;
And every shade and shadow oft conceal,          
By scheme, or nature’s sly force of habit
But thy eternal winter will not pass
Nor find concession in the surgeon’s knife    
Nor can repair or lift your sagging ****
When in infernal lines is etched your life
So long as men can wink and ribs can poke
So long lives this, and you are such a joke.

It fascinates to ponder on
what lights a person's spark
What invokes an individual
To create a work of art
Would a sunrise inspire
poetic masterpiece
Or a mere brain ****?

Would the changing seasons
Bring writers blocks and wrongs
Or the falling leaf in the equinox
Make you wanna write songs?

To some a leaping cute spring lamb
Might give poetic joy in its wake
For others they forsee its beauty
On a top notch dining plate!

Most girls secretly aspire to be prom queen.
I went a different route in high school.
I frankly hated makeup and generally being a teen.
My mask read "misunderstood, mysterious, not cool."

The roots of my disgust were probably not genetic
because my sisters both happened to wear the tiara.
So I guess I never won a crown for being kind of eclectic
but somewhere out there I'll get a reward just for being Sarah.

And it won't be a flimsy plastic headpiece,
but take a form of deeper meaning,
it has value that can only ever increase,
and it will wipe away any bitterness of my not completing
a stupid family tradition of being ******* prom queen.

Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”

Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.

Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”

Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the ****-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.

Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******* the ball-****
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?

If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).

I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.

It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.

With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?

So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?

Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****.

With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.

Money Talks

and what it said back then on the railway bridge
at Bloomfield Road (no longer there of course)
was "You can spare me – it means only one less
penny ice lolly from the corner shop !" (no longer
there of course) and the train will make me huge
(steam no longer here of course) and the others
will laugh and cheer as you scramble down to
the line place me centred and climb back up
here again before the train shoots through to
Central Station (no longer there of course).

Gigantic copper-coloured disc and this recall.
Still talking half a century after.

(c) C J Heyworth August 2014