Adolf und Eva
Got married one lovely day
But then they blew it

While stuffing a turkey last week
I gave the whole dish a new tweak:
I tried not to **** it
As I struggled to fill it;
But the **** pecked my **** with his beak.

Too much fatty food
Stomach-churning agony
Blow it out your Arsch.

It was a lovely New York morning and the sun in the sky was shining
When, from up above in the clouds we all heard a horrid noisy whining,
And we looked up in the air to see a large silver plane flying by,
And the sun was glinting off its fuselage as it flew like a great metallic bird
                                                            ­               swiftly through the sky.

But then the plane made a change of course and headed right in our direction,
Pointing straight at the World Trade Centre (a double concrete *******),
And then the aircraft went into of one of the towers causing much dismay
And a terrible shock to all who saw this truly devastating incident on that
                                                            ­                            cataclysmic day.

The explosion was very loud, and shocked everyone who saw the accident,
(At that stage it was thought to be a mistake and not really meant)
But after 45 minutes we saw another plane on New York airspace encroaching,
And realised that the first was no accident as there was another jetliner
                                                        ­          on the way, fast approaching.

The other plane flew into the second of the towers standing proudly there;
One minute flying in the sky and the next 'twas no longer there,
For the aircraft disappeared totally into the core of the giant concrete building
And it was about half way up the tower, I suppose you would say just about
                                                           ­                             in the middling.

The world's TV stations covered these events 'live' with horror and with awe;
No one knew who had done this, which shook the US of A to its core;
The New York firemen sped to the scene and it is agreed they were very brave
As they did their best to rescue people in the towers, and many a person's life
                                                                      undoubtedly they did save.

But there was worse to come and all know this now (but did not at the time)
Because the towers had been weakened by the crash in this great crime;
Then first one tower fell to the ground with a great noise raising lots of dust
And the other one crumbled with a mighty roar which might well have
                                                                damaged the earth's very crust.

This was without a doubt one of the blackest days in the history of the U.S.A.,
Still talked about with shock and awe and people still cry about it to this day;
And news commentators asked who had done it and soon opinion hardened
With the agreement that it had been masterminded by a Saudi Arab whose
                                                           ­   name was Mr Osama bin Laden.

On the same day as these events which did such damage to old New York City,
Two other planes got hijacked too and the results of that were not very pretty;
One of the other planes landed with a thump on the walls of the Pentagon,
But the fourth one failed in its mission and crash landed en route to the
                              president's residence: the White House, Washington.

So looking back, one might say that they were the start of a war of terror
(And only time will tell if subsequent US attacks on the Arabs were in error)
But whatever transpires these happenings will always be remembered;
However by calling these dire events "9/11" most of the world believe they
                                              happened on the ninth day of November.

I met this **** chick at the entrance to the cinema
and we agreed to sit in the back row
[after all I bought her ****** ticket
so the little **** knew what was expected]
and when the house lights went down
and the couple next door started
mauling each other's mouths seriously
she unzipped my pink satin trousers
and took out the first six inches
of my mighty ***** of generation
and gave it a spectacular *******
until I shot off into her dribbling cakehole
and then I could enjoy the film
without very much extraneous distraction
[apart from the antics of the couple next door
as they were in their eighties at least
judging from their heavy breathing
and from the time it took them to come,
just like a slow train juddering into
a suburban station on Christmas Eve].

Thank you Jesus
I am glad you are dead
Because now I am saved
Just like you said.

Now you're in Heaven
I'm coming too
So keep me a space
To be there with you.

And since you asked,
Chilled Champagne would be nice
And a few plump cherubim
For me to **** once or twice.

The fiery rumblings in my bloated belly
  mean I simply must blow off a smelly;
And, having just consumed a Vindaloo,
  I'm fearful of a major follow-through;
But it's one of those really lucky nights -
  I'm wearing my uncle's open-crotch tights,
Not correctly, as is my usual wont
  But, thank Christ, they're back to front.

Still the women wait in trembling hope
Near the old pit head in the valley;
The earth's turbulence has long abated;
"Let him live, dear God", each prays silently.

Still they linger, knees bloodied from kneeling
Hopelessly on the old cobbled main street,
Eyes ugly red from constant weeping.
Not daring to acknowledge the worst.

Still lies the sad morning after the vigil,
And now there are no more survivors.
"**** this for a ******* waste of time,"
Yells Fat Irene as she waddles off to the pub.

Wee Angus McSporran, the world's most accurate marksman, is deployed  to Afghanistan and Iraq as a ****** in the Royal Scots Guards. In spite of his diminutive stature (4ft 8in), we see him skilfully shooting men, women and children by the score, convinced they are terrorists and a threat to our freedoms in the West. He becomes emotionally involved with the gigantic ginger-haired Pipe Sergeant-Major **** McKnob, the loudest piper in the British Army and a famous poofter. We see Angus and **** in some of the most explicit ******* love scenes ever shown in a mainstream movie (tastefully filmed in soft focus and sponsored by KY-Jelly).

When **** is blown to smithereens by a roadside bomb planted by American freelancers in order to implicate the Taliban, Wee Angus goes into deep depression and becomes obsessed with his skill as a ******, often shooting "allied" soldiers in so-called "blue on blue" friendly fire. After each shooting we see the image of the ghostly dead Sergeant-Major appear as in a dream, his kilt a-swirl and his pipes wailing a tragic dirge in scenes reminiscent of Braveheart.

When Wee Angus triumphantly notches up his 500th **** (including over 75 US military personnel and several important Afghan politicians), the British government decide it is time to withdraw him from active service. In order to gain patriotic press coverage in the run-up to a General Election in Britain, it is agreed that Wee Angus shall be awarded the Victoria Cross by HM the Queen.

We see Wee Angus, in full regimental uniform, marching up the Mall to Buckingham Palace to receive his medal, his telescopic-sighted ******'s rifle looming heavily on his childlike shoulder, being cheered on by crowds of thousands of wellwishers. Tragically, when he is crossing the road in front of the Palace, he does not hear a new environmentally friendly eco-diesel double-decker London Transport bus approaching (his hearing has been seriously impaired by the noise of battle) and he is mown down, his scream being amplified to eardrum-splitting levels of horror. The camera lingers lovingly on his crushed body and we see scenes of unimaginable grief in the crowds who have taken Wee Angus to their hearts. His lover, the strapping Pipe Sergeant-Major **** McKnob, appears as an angel and weeps by Wee Angus's squashed corpse.

In the final scene, reminiscent of the closing minutes of Slumdog Millionaire, the massed marching pipe bands of the Assembled Scots, Irish and Welsh Guards appear as if by magic and the entire crowd cast all inhibitions to the wind and indulge in a life-enhancing Highland Dance and Ceili around the Victoria Memorial facing Buckingham Palace. The film ends with a heart-breaking shot of the Queen coming out on the balcony in front of the Palace and having a fatal heart attack with the shock of what she sees before her. Prince Charles is seen gleefully rubbing his hands together in the background: at long last, he is King! *(end titles shown over a shot of him groping Camilla's naked sagging ****)

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.

This is number 12 my "Count Orlok" series. It is choice.*


A blind woman weeps in the cold shadows
Tears for the agony she has endured,
And will endure as she must watch her son,
Her only begotten son, joy of her blind eyes,
Being ripped to shreds by the Beast.

Deep in the darkest shadows of blackest Hades
The Foul Beast wallows in virgins' blood,
Delighting in the raucous screams of pain,
As his devil-minions roast their victims
Before sodomising them with white hot rods.

She sees through her flame-ruined blind eyes
Her ****** son dragged down into the pit
And splayed onto the charred crucifix,
Naked and helpless before the mighty Beast,
Who bellows with eldritch joy at the sight.

Even the flames are too cold for the Beast:
He must have more white heat to relish the pain
That shall be inflicted on his curséd victims;
And the devils dance around the screaming boy
Before the Beast sates his lust in the victim's smelly ****.

Yes, it's another poem from my vampiric friend, the fearsome COUNT ORLOK!*

Death's Head am I, silver-green
Eerily glowing-in-the-doomy-dark,
See my delicate feather-like wings,
Wings of an ethereal ghost, deadly antennae,
Scented fatally with secret moth codes.
And I stare unblinking...

I watch my own wings flap open;
My life is balanced on my fingertips,
Weightless and shimmering, fearful of what?
I dare not ask that, for I dread the answer,
The response of night-creatures baying at the moon,
As in a terrible nightmare.

And I fly forth to bring death
To frail creatures of mere flesh,
O the joy as my teeth sink into waiting necks
And proboscis-light kisses run down my naked spine,
My tongue savouring their dying essence,
A vague taste of purest *****.

Good taste is very difficult to define:
Some people like to kiss pigs' bottoms
And some people like to eat snails
And some snail-eaters prefer their snails dead.

But my definition of good taste is this:
If a man takes a woman to his bed
Only to discover she is a hunchback,
He abstains from playing Alsatians.

For the uninformed, "playing Alsatians"
(or German Shepherd Dogs if you prefer)
Refers to love-making *******,
A popular and sophisticated modus copulandi
Favoured by people of upmarket ****** tastes,
Only bettered by doing it "up the *******"
As we scholars and learned academics
Tend to express it at moments of stress,
Especially when in full diarrhoeic flow.

This is a terrifying tale as told by Ebeneezer Sweetlove, my late cousin*

I remember how I met Edwina all those years ago: and there was none of that "eyes connecting across a crowded room" crap. Well, not in a romantic sense - it was just pure lust. I suddenly realised this woman was staring at me with undisguised desire from the other side of a cocktail party at some boring conference at the five-star Grand Hotel. I was ***** as buggery as my latest girl friend had, just the previous week, committed suicide by jumping to a hideous death off scenic Beachy Head, so I returned the ****'s look with a lethally ****** stare of my own and then licked my lips as vulgarly as possible, indicating I was simply barking for a hot oral session, no holes barred.

The woman I was to know all too briefly as Edwina took the hint and came over and we talked as though we'd known each other all our lives; but even someone as suave as I was a little surprised when she groped me quite openly and shoved her tongue into my earhole, dribbling hotly down my cheek. And then she seemed to go all shy and little girl-like until I sophisticatedly suggested we go out for dinner and then back to my penthouse suite for a night of mind-blowing *******. I have to say I was embarrassed when the head waiter in the little bistro I selected complained when she took off her knickers and gave them to me for a refreshing sniff.

The *** was amazing - Edwina was like a beast on heat, screaming like a banshee while we ****** each other's brains out. Yet, in between *******, she was as gentle and charming as a little ***** cat. Six times I gave her my hot ***** that night: once in her mouth, then four times in the usual place, finishing off with one up her rear end. I was more or less totally drained of my love juices and in need of a good long kip before lunch.

But, tragedy struck: well before the dawn's early, she woke me and whispered she had to go as she had to get home before her husband got back after his night shift from down the sewers - he was apparently in charge of the entire East Sussex sewage system and liked to have an hour long shower every morning to get the stench of ***** off him.

I begged her to stay, saying I would happily pay for a divorce so I could have her with me for always. I even offered to have a contract put out on her sewer rat of a hubby, mentioning that my brother-in-law, Kosmo, was big in the Albanian mafia and owed me a favour. But she said no, I could ******* with my pleas. As dawn grew nearer I could see her becoming ever more frantic to leave and it was only then I realised the truth, having at last deciphered the real meaning of her blood-stained and scabby third ****** and the scarlet 666 tattoo on her luscious **** cheek.

Yes, Edwina was a ***-demon from deepest Hell and thus I was left with only one course of action. Ever so reluctantly, I bravely reached for the sacred wooden stake and mallet that I had carried round in my Dolce & Gabbana crocodile suitcase for so many years just in case of such an eventuality. Sadly I drove the stake into her beautiful ***** with a mighty blow and, instead of the blood which might have been reasonably expected, only a stream of warm **** poured out. Before my very eyes, her corpse disintegrated into a pile of odorous dust. Truly was Edwina a daughter of darkness.

As you may imagine, I had to give the chambermaid quite a hefty gratuity in order to get her to cleanse my room and to bin the evidence, but so grateful was she for the honorarium that she agreed to share my bed the very next night, knowing she would be likely to receive an immense tip of quite another category.

Number Ten in the terrifying ORLOK series*

A horrid figure is standing on your doorstep,
My mouth spouting freely dread plumes of rancid breath;
Such a noisome stench billows from my rotten maw
As my hate-filled eyes stare at you in the twilight.

You know from my dread expression that I have come,
Come to claim you and to drain your sad poor body
Of all its warm juices from every orifice;
And you can guess just what I intend before you die.

Your soul will scream in terror at what next awaits:
Watch with clammy fear as I removes my cloak
Revealing my scaly nakedness before your eyes
Including the largest **** in eternity.

The bleak evening's feeble rays reflect o'er my face,
As I tear off my Y-Fronts and sodomise you,
With immensely fast and powerful buttock thrusts,
Before you even have a chance to empty your bowels.

And after I have finished with your rear passage,
I shall sink my yellow fangs into your trembling neck,
******* hard enough to empty veins and colon;
O plunge gravewards, ****** in every sense of the word.

COUNT ORLOK (my alter ego) gets light-hearted in Poem #9*

I'm a vampire who likes to drink blood
And I drink more than I really should.
(I think biting necks
is better than ***).
I'd drink yours if only I could.

The blood of a ****** is best
(it wins every possible test);
But I still like a tipple
From a bite of a ******
On a hot nymphomaniac's breast.

I'm Count Orlok the black vampire bat
And blood-******* is where I am at;
I'll cause lots of pain
To your jugular vein;
I don't care if you're skinny or fat.

Edna's alter ego ORLOK advises you not to trifle with him in his 8th poem*

Who would dare to mock the great Count Orlok,
Mighty vampire bat and ace sodomiser?
No one at all, I tell you, my old **** -
Against that I'd be a strong advisor.

But if anyone e'er dared to steal my poems
I'd surely rip their ******* throat apart;
They'd be opening a veritable can of worms -
And who cares if it were a guy or a ****?

So beware of stealing aught from this wicket bat
Who flutters above your house by night;
I'll surely find out just where you're at
And then may Satan pity you in your plight.

Anyone who steals my poems is condemned to Hell
And their death pains will be truly grotty;
Since, in spite of the really awful smell,
I'll stuff eight inches up their dying botty.

Number 7 in the ORLOK series and one of the best*

O how I relish the taste of blood
****** out from the devastated jugular
But there is more, much more
When the victim is a nubile ****
From a Transylvanian village
Where ****** morality
Is quite ******* thin on the ground;
And that is how I met my fate.

'Twas on an October eve
When I met plump Esmeralda
And (having fed my fill from her neck
as she slept in her hut
under filthy rags stinking of stale *****),
I sank my fangs into her naked belly
Ripping into her bloated guts
With my accustomed gusto;
My tongue slurping its way
Over her twitching ****;
And finally I descended joyously
To her odorous *****-encrusted *****
For the last rites,
Before the final curtain
To her worthless life of peasantry.

But then, as my excitement mounted,
And just as I was on the verge
Of pumping out my vampiric *******,
I felt an agonising, mind-blasting pain
As a major stroke swept through me,
Wrecking my synapses big time,
Turning my brain into guacamole.
And now I am a crippled ******,
Just a spasticated old vampire
In my second-hand rusting wheelchair,
Courtesy of Romanian Social Services,
Drooling helplessly
Into my swollen pissy crotch,
Waiting for another enema,
My sole remaining pleasure
And a stimulus to my jaded prostate.

But, hurrah! hurrah! new hope arrives:
A miracle occurs as I read of
The new wonder pill from SuperDrug
Available only in private practise
And guaranteed to rejuvenate the jaded
Or your money back, no worries.
Orlok will fly again to pursue
The pleasures of the flesh
And especially the botty-zone.

This is number six of ORLOK's poems*

When I see a fat smiling face
On a plump young ******
I am consumed with lust
To rip out her neck
And to **** the lifeblood
From her throbbing veins.

And then my drooling jaws
Slide down her floppy ****
Heading southwards
To where the business is at
For a further tasty mouthful
From both ends.

Finally I administer
The coup de grâce
Which is to say
Putting it bluntly
Eight inches of vampiric ****
Up the dirtbox.

Yes, it's the fifth in the COUNT ORLOK series!

Ah! Sweet Death comes slowly
   to my poor victims,
As I **** their lifeblood
   through their gargling screams.

How I enjoy their cries
  for mercy and compassion,
Just before I give them
  eight inches up the ****.

CHORUS  (Sung to the tune of "Rawhide")

Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting,
Though the smell's disgusting
Yeeha!
I'm evil beyond measure
And I gain my evil pleasure

Through rain and wind and weather,
My ****-splattered **** will never
Forget the pangs of pleasure
Inside...inside...
Yeeeeee-Hawwww!!!!"

[Orlok wipes crap off vampiric **** and flies off,
the wnd whistling through his gaping zip.]

The 4th in my infamous COUNT ORLOK sequence*

The sweat pours down my back
As I pound into her
Grunting like a hippo
(me, not her, as corpses tend not to grunt,
at least in my wide experience as a corpse-*******)
And her bloodless body
Gets another load of my filth
Up the back trapdoor;
And, to think, I still have
A good bucketful of blood
To drink for supper
When I get back home,
Unless it's coagulated by now,
In which case I shall be well *******.
And may have to send out for a chinkie takeaway instead.

Poem Number Three from Edna's alter ego, Count ORLOK

O how the lust for virgins' blood rages through my veins,
My thirst for the wondrous elixir of human gore is all-engulfing!
I rise at dusk from my noisome grave, drooling with anticipation
And I soar upwards into the night sky like a bat out of Hell
(which is what I am, so it's no ******* exaggeration is it?).
I go to search out new victims in a new place as my old haunts
Are rather depleted following my ravages on their inhabitants,
But the foul miasma emanating from Wolverhampton's suburbs
Is enough to make me throw up last night's supper on my tuxedo,
And it totally kills my ******* appetite stone ******* dead.
With a shrieked *"The West Midlands Conurbation ***** big time!"
I fly off in disgust, a steam of diarrheoa trailing after me,
Like brown stardust.

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.

A Poem by my alter ego, Count Orlok, the ******* vampire bat*

O how the blood lust ravages me,
My thirst for the red nectar of life is all-powerful.
I rise after nightfall from my grave eager for the slaughter
And I soar into the night sky like a bat out of Hell
(a pretty accurate description if I may make an aside).

I have reached new victims in a new town to quench my thirst
But the stench emanating from the slums of Oldham
Totally kills my ******* appetite stone ******* dead.
With a shrieked "South-East Lancashire can get knotted"
I fly off, having soiled myself at both ends in disgust.

Who am I, the lovely Edna -
Is my lovely name a misnomer then?
I am myself though, yet a true Sweetlove.
What'€™s a Sweetlove? It'€™s neither hand, nor foot,
Nor toe, nor any other naughtier part
Belonging to a being, sweet as moi.
What'€™s in a name? That which we call a ****
By any other name would smell as great;
And so Edna would (were she not Edna called
But maybe Deidre or Albert Buttocks),
Retain that wondrous odour which she owns
Without the lovely Edna Sweetlove name.
Thus the word **** which is no intrinsic
Part of me is but a blow-off of wind.

You watch me from the bed
Where we have shared love's passion,
Your hair glistens in the morning light
O how I love you, my dearest.

My gorgeous form weaves its way
Gracefully across the room;
Then I throw the curtains back
On this bright April morning.

Let the Spring sunlight enter
And more fully illuminate
The next daring stage in our
Enticing ******* adventures.

Dazzled for a brief moment
By the brilliant solar rays,
You hear a rustling noise:
Precursor of new ****** delight.

I am wiping my well-toned bottom
After crapping on your carpet;
An enormous steaming mound awaits
To stimulate your ****** taste buds.

I watched a woman dying
On the street;
She had a smile on her face
As she had just come
With a great howl
As the bus hit her
Amidships,
Spilling her Marks & Spencer's bag
Full of stolen groceries
As well as her guts
And her birth certificate
Which showed she was actually born male.
We all have our little secrets
You never know what's in a lady's *******
Until you go there to explore.
So you can ******* now.

I once ****** a ******* a flight
In a plane, when all slept, in the night;
I accept all the blame
For her scream when she came
And which gave the gay steward a fright.

I once ****** a ******* a bike;
And when she asked me if I would like
To do her dear mother
Or her gay little brother
I knew that she must be a ****.

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

Does anyone here know of a canine murderer?
As I urgently need someone to bash the living **** out of
My fat ugly neighbour's disgusting Yorkshire terrier.
Oh Holy God, How I want the little ******* mutt to suffer.
I’d love to see it choking and coughing its head off;
Yorkshire terriers are the most repulsive things since sliced bread,
Yappy, repellent smelly little ***** of malevolent fur.
They only appeal when wriggling feebly at a rope’s end.
Woof! Woof! Woof! Gurgle! Gurgle!
Silence.

Beethoven's Ninth;
Mozart's Thirty-Eighth;
What do they lack
Artistically speaking?
They lack the music of the buttocks,
The celestial odourous ****
Which charmeth all who hear it.
Although admittedly Schubert
Left an unfinished movement
On the floor near his piano
And the whiff was something horrid.

A Poeme from ye Penne of
ye right learned Professor Peter Buttocke
collected by hysse Pupille Edna*


There is an ancient Shittah in my Garden, eldritch and right dun in alle Aspect
Wherein dwelleth a loude and noisome Ouzel, ye like of which I have ne'er yet seen
Under thysse our goode Goddes fayre Welkin up in ye Skye above us alle.
This foule and unwholesome Beeste, with trespassynge shote-like ****** Effusiones
Hath performed ye veritable Antithesis of kindly horticultural Edulcoration
For whiche Sinne I shall emasculate ye Brute, so God may grant me Pow'r.
Sudating at ye Nostrilles I advance, my trustie Stang at ye ever-ready,
And I prepare to eject it from yon Pollard, having previous shattered
Alle its horryd Frangibles with one brave bolde frampold Blowe.
Thwacke! A last Piffero-reminiscent Warble escapeth loude from its fowle coronoid Appendage;
Right severe Damage and harsh fatal Ruine of Nature irreversible have I caused
To ye shaggie shamelesse little avian Runte, whereon Goddes smile hath ne'er dawned.
Thus descendeth it to the Faeces-bedecked Herdwick, and I titubate triumph'lly o'er its conticent Corpse.
And were there yet a duodenary Set of ye Frass-Depositors, I would not give a Demi-Testrel for their Survyvall
Should they e'er again infringe the sacred Privacie whych ye ancient Shittah enjoyeth in my Garden.

a bottle of sake
four double gin and tonics
bad halitosis

I open my mouth to your tongue
and it forces its way in
slurping past my incisors
and licking the crevices between my molars
like a snake about to strike
at a mongoose's *******
oh my god but your halitosis
is enough to make me boke
copiously on my new hush puppies.

Does a deaf mute with rheumatoid fingers
have a speed impediment per se?
How do you (and indeed should you)
kiss a *******'s unwashed crutch?
When a blind man gets concussed,
do you think he sees the stars?
Does an invalid with a hole in his trouser pocket
feel rather good sometimes?
Whom is there left for a Scottish Jew
to call a greasy miser?
Do cetaceous mammals have a whale of a time
or do stud horses have a hard life?
Why ask me?
I'm a ******* polymath already?

We walk along the beach at night,
Arms entwined and hearts entwined,
Waves lapping 'gainst our feet,
Pebbles scurrying like sand ***** 'twixt our toes.
  
Talking about *****, we are both
A little tickly in the naughty bits department,
As the gentle summer breeze
Wafts through our matted ***** hairs.
  
Just a brief hour or two ago,
We were strangers at the Pier disco,
And now our histories are to be
Inextricably linked by fate.
  
I do not know that, in a month or so,
I shall need to send you
A little yellow contact slip
From the Margate Hospital special clinic
  
Informing that you have been exposed to
A most unpleasant social disease
Which, with a bit of rotten luck,
Could easily rot your insides.
  
But, for now, our thoughts are far away
As we laugh and joke together
In our new found post-******,
Youthful lovers' camaraderie,
  
Not wanting to speak too loudly or disturb
The copulating pair by the nearby breakwater
(Not that they'd be put off by a thunderclap
Seeing as how he's on the short strokes by now).

There was once a farmer called Giles
Who had the most terrible piles.
He sat in a field
Until they congealed
And his bumhole broke into smiles.

There was once a young man called Rearden
Who went to a callgirl in Sweden;
He said "You're in luck,
I don't want a ****,
All I want is to be seriously ***'d on".

A smile from a stranger,
A gentle, loving thought,
A child's "thank you Daddy",
A family supper,
A puppy dog's brown eyes,
A lover's first blushing kiss,
A selfless act of kindness,
A thoughtful deed,
A Christmas card with holly,
A warm handshake,
A really good **** in the morning.
Aaaaaah, that's so much better.

PARTING - A LAMENT FROM SAD OLD EDNA*

Parting is such dulcet sorrow;
My lonely heart weeps at eternal separation.
Now you are gone from me
The world is cold and empty
And a veil covers my bitter tears.

To lose my lover, my friend,
My partner through life's sad
And pointless journey...
My very soul is rent asunder and
Cast shattered on the wind.

But let me cease my whingeing!
Upon due reflection this is but
The stuff of which cheap sentiment is composed.
As far as I'm concerned you can *******
And no regrets, you stinking *******.

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 sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
  
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
  
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
  
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
  
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
  
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.