O but my quest for love
(or at least some hot ***** ***)
has been a hard road, harder than gravel,
but finally I was pretty
sure that Eros' arrow had scored
a ******* bullseye
as I re-read the fifteen page email
of concentrated vile **** and obscenity
from the fabulously gorgeous teenage triplets
who were enamoured of me
and my open crotch photos;
certainly the accompanying attachments
of filth and sisterly depravity boded well
for our meeting, a picnic in the park.

My wildest dreams were exceeded
as I saw them waiting in their half-**** beauty
and, after a few bottles of champagne
and a crate of oysters (their treat),
they carried me off, cackling like ***-mad hens,
to their waiting chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce
to take me to their promised penthouse pad
for a nuit d'amour never to be forgotten;
"Where are we going girls?" I enquired
and how I screamed when they answered Scunthorpe.