Passes not by a day, that many an e-mail
unsolicited for would not stray--
from only Christ knows where--into
my SPAM folder. Some do sail
there to have a prurient stay,
bringing along many a memento
in an argosy of raunchy piquant pictures.
Some convey commerce, insurance or banking
messages; some the cargo of relationship
carry; while another an ad of ******
bears, still another talks about dealership.
Yet stood out Twain. Two diverse
SPAM e-mails have been berthing,
with goatish gaits and sharkish smirks,
in that folder unrelenting and unswerving.
One SPAM e-mail reads: "Why wait--have
an affair with a cheating wife today."
Sweetest SPAM!
Gorging myself on this fetish
fare free of charge. Kittenish
jades, serve me thy dainties of
dalliance enough!
To rock and roll, rolling in the hay,
making merry heaves, does ever crave
this rebellious flesh--yet, this randy
SPAM e-mail's offer offsets much the mind:
"A cheating wife" desiring to find--
for reasons amourous--a dandy,
a sort of cad.
Wondering muse: "A cheating wife"?
What a magic life!
Another SPAM e-mail says its own thus: "View
my pics. Lonely married women--
view **** pics." Indeed and true,
they grip with a serious sudden
poke the soul, like pangs the heart,
those three momentous, wrecking,
wretched words: "lonely married women."
Though content spicy and Libidinous;
yet maddening.
Secret meals seemingly are delicious,
but have a fiery taste.
Where--on Earth, in Mars, or in Hell
are they? Here, in this world they dwell.
Thought marriage is a blessed haven--
a heaven of unfeigned love and lasting bliss.
How could one be married and yet
be alone in life--lonely, who has
crossed over singlehood's borders,
nor is she a widow for bereavement?
A husband did his queen abandon
for a fresh-fangled pawn,
flying away with that new
dove--frittering his fortune away,
as she chirps love in lust songs anew
into his donkey's ears; flattery
displayed, a groovy
guise--
playing ducks and drakes with his riches
until his substance ship sank, like Titanic,
colliding with an iceberg of folly
in the deep of adultery:
making a muck of his wealth.
The flirtatious dollybird no sooner
flitted, then flew abroad at last,
leaving him to drown in the murky
waters of his wreck.
Returned the prodigal man to his hearth
in a sad pickle, with one shirt, one
jean,
and a pair of snickers, to the ever
gracious ***** of his loving Missis--
like a sinner contrite to Jesus.
Whilst a sudden grass widow, his wife
did not covet the companionship,
comforts and copulation
of another flagship--
but was committed to her
vows
to that fun-tossed lugger--
despite the billowy waves,
praying he'd come to his harbour.
The women howbeit in my SPAM folder--
those "cheating wives and lonely married
women", are like Lady Portiphar
pining and yearning for Joseph.
Unread.
Unreplied.