By some whim of chance or caprice, I travelled one summer to Greece, Sat in some taverna, And there I saw Myrna In back yard, a-feeding the geese. She sang to her labours, while kneeling, The cut of her blouse most revealing. The song of that siren Soon had me desirin' Those mammary glands to be feeling. I rushed out the back, hell for leather, And asked the young poultrygeist whether, Could she be approached, And the subject I broached, Of a diddle down dere 'mongst the feathers. She rose, with commendable wit, Told me I was bound for the pit Of hell, in a cart, And then the young tart Fair peppered my face with goose shit. I thus stumbled out of that barn-o, My features encrusted with guano, The venture no use, Not even a goose, Think next time I'll fly to Lugano. And their, through the mighty Alps stroll, Where maybe I'll find me a doll, Who make my old cock work Like precision clockwork And give me a proper Swiss roll.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006