Here's where to go.

The curate told old Nell of Parson Day,
Of how he took those lassies o'er the  lea,
And how they'd frolic naked in the hay,
Until they lay exhausted 'neath the tree.
Though many would be shock-ed by the sight,
I watch them as their limbs so sweet entwine.
My camera has just sufficient light,
And blackmail will revenge me on the swine.

For once he took my love unto that bower,
As later she did solemnly explain,
And roughly there he plucked her virgin flower,
Then cast her off with uttermost disdain.

For many years my cunning plans I've laid.
I've seen him with the cattle and the sheep,
And many a simple innocent young maid.
I've snapped them all, and film does not come cheap!

I've witnessed too his incest in the morn;
His daughter he's taken from her bed,
And ravished her young body with his horn,
While lurked I here with Pentax by the shed.

	My cine camera spools have swiftly turned,
As pretty village maids he has stripped bare,
And later their pleas has cruelly spurned,
And sent them off to shop at Mothercare.
Now all his fornications in the field,
The sordid tales of virgins' hymens broke,
At last to me a sweet revenge will yield,
A tabloid rag today with me has spoke.

For many years I've laboured at this toil,
I've watched from corners lonely and obscure,
At last his fun I ready am to spoil,
And fiscally I shall be quite secure.

Nell said: you think my lad, you have such power,
You're nothing but a sick perverted knave.
We girls would wait for hour upon hour,
To feel the thrust of that almighty stave.

Your path of glory has one major fault,
If e'er the hue and cry you hope to raise,
We girls who've played love's banjo in the vault,
Have nothing for the vicar but great praise.

We pleas-ed were to satisfy his lust,
He took us all, and scarcely stopped for breath.
I've felt his lips upon my panting bust,
As so did Sally, Lucy, Sue and Beth.

Every one of us he's surely laid,
In meadow green, in hay field, barn or byre,
A woman was of every virgin made,
His massive rod it seemed would never tire.

He unleash-ed that monster from it's cage,
And gladly with him we would sweetly roll,
And now you wish to put us on the page,
Of tabloid trash, the worledto us behold.

You think that saucy photos, quite obscene,
Of parson Day and lasses truly bare,
You'll likely lad that village pond be seein'
With concrete boots to surely keep you there.

Your former lover gladly bared her breast,
In yonder coppice, then in far off wood
She squeal-ed with delight as in he pressed,
She said to me she'd ne'er been done so good.	

another but of poeticide

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Last updated: Sun, 19 Sep 1999.