As Ginger likes her verses meaty,
here's three for which I beg entreaty
that if you seek bovine release
don't make it known to the police.
No child, no sprog, no progeny
for love of passion vetinary.
The Scots like the freedom that kilts bring
especially when sheep have a kip,
for ovines have very good hearing
and will run at the rip of a zip.
<u>My Love Doth Ku</u>
My love and I, we used to meet
in moonlit fields of hoary beet,
and there I swore in frosted breath
to never part until my death,
and so be lovers unto the dawn
when I would trudge away forlorn.
Six nights to love and one for rest,
my head upon her milky breast,
I talked of love that never died
and soft she listened, but never cried.
Her huge brown eyes, they stared to mine
and gentle lips and ears divine
ne'er eased my pangs of violent love.
Then, as I gave a throaty shove,
there came a figure from on high
- it was her mother - O let me die!
Imagine my great and awful woe,
In flagrante delicto,
stuck in a field of hoary beet
with soggy trousers at my feet.
My shame was much too much to bear
and dare her mother's icy stare,
So looking down, I squeaked, "D...do...?",
But all she did was bellow "Mooo!"
[This message has been edited by Nigel Holt (edited January 19, 2002).]
|