I once tried to do a serious limerick, but it went terribly wrong.
Let's try again.


Cities and towns aren't my scene.
I prefer an old village green,
With cider to sup,
and a maid's breasts to cup,
Plus a pasty, to make me serene.


After luncheon, my lady and I,
Look up at the summer blue sky,
"We'll go for a stroll,
See the mare and her foal."
So we wish the inn's landlord goodbye.

Then away from the village we'll stray,
Past the field of the newly mown hay,
We'll leap 'cross the rill,
And up yonder hill,
To the heath-land that stretches away.

We'll stroll through the heather in bloom,
Midst the myrtle, the sage and the broom,
See the wee rabbits rush
Through the thick underbrush,
Deep in the heart of Texas   NO!

To their burrows in that nearby combe.

Then we enter the old piney wood,
And the dimness soon dampens her mood..
Though she shows little sign,
Her hand searches mine,
I squeeze, She responds, that feels good.

Now it's out in the sunshine again,
And we walk down that pleasant green lane,
Where the buttercups spring,
And I feel like a king,
For her hand in my grasp I maintain.

And so we come down to the brook,
O'er the bridge rail of course we must look,
To spot the brown trout,
But we know beyond doubt,
They're too smart to be caught on a hook.


Through a gate to a meadow so green,
To a corner where we won't be seen;
As we stand there I kiss
That beautiful miss,
With lascivious thoughts quite obscene   NO!

While the sun makes her eyes and hair gleam.

She lays down and spreads out her hair,
Arranges her body with care.
Her skirt it flies wide,
Leaving nothing to hide,
All her wonderful secrets laid bare.

I enter that cavern so moist,
As pleasurable murmurs are voiced,
Then we gently make love,
While the curlews above
With sweet liquid song do rejoice.

Then we wander along through the gloam-
ing until we reach our home,
To the lowing of cattle,
And the old nightjar's rattle.
Who would wish from this heaven to roam?




Well, it tried to get away a couple of times, but I think I caught it.Unfortunately 
I could not fit in this lovely verse:

So there in our quiet rural idyll,
With her blouse buttons I fiddyllMy dick grows  in size
And enters her thighs,
And I happily give her a diddyll.

Well, you can't win them all.

Notes:
The Devon/Dorset word "combe" = the Welsh "cwm" = a valley in the side of a hill.
Some cunning linguists believe it to be the derivation of other cu-- words.

Nightjar = whip-poor-will.

Tiddy Ogg.

Selections.

Last updated: Thu, 9 Sep 1999.