Sheherezade.
In days well before old King Fahd,
There lived an Arabian bard,
Who told the delights
Of a thousand plus nights
With a pop-tart called sherehezade.
But this (alleged) bard, who is gaga,
And don't know Baghdad from West Gaza,
Thinks Sheherazade
Is a name far too hard
To spell so I'll call the bitch Zaza.
Well, this is the tale that he told,
Of tale-telling female of old,
But who, unlike me,
Who tells you for free,
From scribbling some blokes made much gold...
Most famous of whom, Richard Burton,
(Not Liz Talor's cuckold, that dirt on
Whom's easily found.)
This bloke, eastward bound,
On Arab scrawl lifted the curtain.
Now that verse was worser than most,
Says I who uncommonly boast.
Get on with the tale
Ogg, or you'll surely fail
To complete it ere Erm wants warm toast.
OK we might at last get under way...
There once was a powerful sheikh,
Who, each night, a virgin would take,
And have his foul way
Till dawn the next day,
Then kill 'em as daylight would break.
He did so without no compunction;
But face it, if ou want conjunction
With cunt that's brand new,
Then you got to screw
'em thus, though folks say you dysfunction.
Now Zaza, to save her kid sister,
Who's next on his list, says: " Hey mister,
I see you're well hung,
And I'm good with my tongue,
How 'bout it?" and he can't resist 'er.
"Hang on, 'fore you get at my twat,
I've something to say, not a lot.
I'll tell you the tale
Of Sinbad the sail-
or, 'cos plenty of time we've still got."
And though the old fool wants to bang 'er,
To tup her, to screw her, to wang 'er,
He sits there enthralled,
Till breakfast is called,
When she stops at a crucial cliff-hanger.
So each night he plays with his cock,
She not getting out of her frock;
No, our cunning Zaza
Relates Ali Baba,
And mythical birds like the roc.
This goes on for nearly three years,
(A thousand and one nights, my dears.
He then says he'll bed her,
And not then behead her,
And happily they live for years.
The wisdom of old Persian mystics,
I've studied to find the logistics,
To solve here the matter
Of feminine chatter,
And overcome cunning linguistics:
If you, man, are in the same boat,
Her yakking is getting your goat,
The answer, of course,
Is strike at the source:
She'll talk not with choat in her throat.
)
Wednesday, April 10, 2002