I once ****** a ******* a bus;
She had pimples, all oozing out pus;
She said, feigning shock,
"My, what a huge ****!"
But she never noticed my truss.

I once ****** a girl in a train;
She was short, rather fat and quite plain;
The smell of stale *****
Which arose from her bunk
Obliged me to **** her again.

I once ****** a ******* a boat;
She smelled awful, worse than a stoat;
I fingered her ***
Which made us both come
And I wiped the **** off on her coat.

I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of  KING of FARTS!"  Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.

Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed?  It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?

The second poem in the series by my alter ego, Count Orlok the wicked Vampyr*

O how the moon peeps out gaily from behind a pink cloud,
Its light shining wanly on the grave of my fat neighbour,
That ugly old ****, Bert Higgenbottom, follower of silly old Jesus,
As my vampyr fangs glisten in the ***** moonlight.

Ding! ****! The midnight bell tolls like the clappers
And I rise fully ***** to begin the horrid task
Which I have been putting off for months:
The ritual defilement of his mouldy corpse.

What a shock to discover his nightdress-clad body
Lying next to his collection of Doris Day LPs;
Thus I turn the putrid plump corpse over carefully
Before sodomising it with my mighty circumcised ****.

Yucch! It's a grim job but someone's got to do it.

One of  Edna's "randyhornbag" collection of erotica.

i am a ******* *****
   and that's not a metaphor
it's the total ******* truth
   i'm a ******* forsooth
it's what i do for work
   i'll **** or **** or ****
off any man or beast
   i don't care in the least
young boys old men fat freaks
   i get them all most weeks
i'll have any kind of ***
   cash only and no cheques

i suppose you think it's funny
   to **** fat men for money
to have countless alien *****
   often stinking like old socks
shoved up my pretty *****
   kept artificially juicy
to make the fools imagine
   i'm oozing jissom for them
it's not the best of jobs
   ******* total strangers' knobs
pretending to like vile men
   when if i could i'd flay them

i rarely **** for pleasure
   i no longer have the measure
of love and tender feeling
   of kisses phlegm congealing
my private sexlife's twisted
   i love being thrashed and ******
i crave darkest degradation
   masochistic *******
so if you think it's funny
   ******* men for money
let me be quite blunt
   if you think so you're a ****

Another "randyhornbag" poem for all avid fans of *******.*

rip off my dripping *******
and part my waiting ****-cheeks
sniff my fresh-scrubbed ****
then rim me ******* senseless

taste the sweet-sour tang
of my recent defecation
force your ***** mouth-*****
past my eager sphincter

seeking to engulf me
in my ****** ***-lust
and now for our delectation
shove your huge **** up me

and fill me with your hot *****
or fist me till I scream
my ******* brains out and
then **** myself in terror

The death-filled battlefield lay foul and grey,
Its noisome stillness broken grimly by the groans
Of wounded, broken, bleeding, dying men.
But, cheer up folks, there's some good news:
Gently, slowly, through that desolate scene
Came an Angel all dresséd in nurses' kit;
She wandered, lovely as a cloud, starched in white,
Giving eager head unto the maimed and crippled.
"Me, me" a legless soldier wanly called,
More in hope than in serious expectation
Of a caring gobble before he croaked.
And then he passed on to the great ******* in the sky,
Another useless sacrifice to nothing what-so-*******-ever.

Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my ******* oozing desire,
My groin drenched in desire for his wanton ****-flesh.

Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my twitching buttocks;
My screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of Parisian dawnings.
My clear goal: swallow his salty comings.

Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami bozo,
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.

How I love the smell of your *****
As you straddle my eager open mouth
My tongue licks at your mighty ****
As your canines brush my engorged ****.

How I love the taste of your throbbing ****!
O the feel of your spotty **** in my hands!
How my tonsils risk a ****** good bruising!
And lo! my ***** get stuck between your teeth!

Then your ***** gushes down my hungry cake-hole
And my salty ***** juices run down your fat chin -
But the best bit so far, is if we skilfully manage
To let fly two foetid mutual simultaneous farts.

But now, folks, we get to the really good bit
The bit which we have both been waiting for:
Out come our joint warm streams of diarrheoa
Drenching our excited faces in noisome filth.

I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".

It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.

She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's *******, but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.

I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn'€™t all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).

The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.

Ah wuz lookin oot o' mah winder and ah saw this lad
wi' a barry wee lassie gaun' up the hill.
-Wair the **** d'ye think you're gaun tae? ah yells oot.
But the daft ***** didnae answer at aww,
must've been oot o' thir ****** heids wi' E's or summat,
d'ye ken what ah'm tellin' ye,ye daft radge?
-Wair ye're ******* going? ah yells a couple mair times
and finally the gadge yells back to ays,
-Up the ******* hill tae fetch a pail o' ******* watter,
me Ma's hud her ******' taps turned oaf by the ******' Corporation,
which is a ******* pain in the erse ah had ter agree.
I realised ah knew the wee **** Jack but,
eh wuz an auld classmate of ays and eh's hung oot wi' ma brar n me,
when we wuz bairns oan the Scheme,eh?

-That's a bonny wee lassie ye've goat wi' ye, there Jack, ah yelled,
thinking ah'd nae kick her oot o' mah scratcher
withoot gi'ing her a guid ride.
Ah huvtae sey ah recognised hir as a wee ****
called Jill from the Scheme, a right tidy wee ride
in mah opinion wi' a guid little ***** on hir, as ah recall.
-Mind ye're own ******' business, the **** yells back at ays,
takin' the pail in yin hand and the ****'s wee hand in the other yin.

Ah can tell ye ah totally pished meself wi' laughter
when the pair o' they wide ***** fell doon,
Jack breakin' his ******' croon n the groond,
ah'm sure he nivver meant it tae happen,
'n eh mustae squashed his ******* bawws
as eh fell doon n aww from the wey he screamed oot,
but the wee lassie cam tumbling doon the ****** hill n aww,
heid n **** oor her ******' erse
'n ah could see she wasnae wearin' any ****** *******
'n her ***** was on display under her skirt.
Ah wouldnae expect anything else from a wee ****,eh?

-Dinnae worry, ah'll com and help ye, ah called oot,
but when ah goat thir, both o them wis deid,
ah thoat o' gittin mah hole wi' the deid lassie n aww,
but you shouldnae dae that, it's no respectful tae wimmin,
'n eywis, the polis might trace me through the DNA,
those ***** are clivvir 'n aw, ye ken.
So ah contented mesel' wi' rummidging through the poakits
o' the lad's jaykit tae see if eh hud ehs payment from the Joab Centre,
but the daft **** mustae spent it aww on a boatil or two o Grants,
ah ken ah'd hae done the same mahsel'.
And there wasnae a penny in the lassie's purse,
so ah thoat ah'd jus' **** oaf doon the ******
'n ask some **** tae call the hoaspital and the ****** polis.
Eh?

When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.

My sister never had any boyfriends
which was quite surprising really you know
because she had a nice pair of knockers
and a very cute little **** on her
but never once a gentleman caller
came knock knock knock on her friendless portal.

So I asked her what was the ******* score
that no butch lads wanted to part her bush
and whyfore was she not barking for it
in a vague manner of ******* speaking
and she told me to glue my keen peepers
on her keyhole the next night to find out.

Thus I knelt down before her bedroom door
my eye glued to the appropriate hole
with a full view of her "sleepezee" bed
on which she casually lay spread out
legs opened like a major T-junction
and then her friend appeared to my rapt joy.

I gasped in wonder as her lesby love
straddled my **** sis and gave her tongue
a good chance to lick out her womb entrance
causing me to indulge in self-abuse
as their eager mutual *******
gave way to some red hot ***** action.

(I hope they didn't hear the noisy splats
as I squirted my lovejuice onto the doorpost)
Good taste, eh?