Poem: A Defense Of Moderation

The well-mannered man, of high-etiquette born,
May see in the mirror morality’s form
And not merely ornaments gaudily worn.

At a feast such as this, ’twas an honor to dine,
But I’ll have no more capon nor mutton, nor wine,
And as for dessert, I shall have to decline.

For temperance decries the unbound appetite,
So I’ll push back my plate to Good Breeding’s delight,
And please, my good man, only one fist tonight.

Only one fist tonight.  One’s enough for a king,
For to stuff oneself so’s an indelicate thing.
Only one, gently done, and do take off your ring.

I believe to demand any more as a guest
Strikes one as crudely ham-handed, at best.
Come, come, only one? Then we’ll give it a rest.

I graciously thank you, but only one fist.
Go light on the butter, and stop at the wrist.
Just where the fist meets the wrist.  I insist.

It’s quite the finale!  Enough is enough.
You’re right up my alley, but really, I’m stuffed.
There are pygmies in Borneo who starve in the buff.

See! The night has grown long, and I fear I must leave,
Tho’ I know you’ve a smatt’ring of tricks up your sleeve.
Leave the rest for your dog.  He looks thin.  And bereaved.

Poem: His Great Undoing

(A sort of Sampson and Delilah?)

Cried Samuel McGee to Delia his wife,

“Thou ornery tart, lay off with the knife,

For you’ll not be a-trimming my great gnarly bush, 

For the bush makes a man, and a man you’ll not push.  

I’ve an acre of thicket, that spreads o’er me nubs.

I’ve a blackforest ham that looms in the shrubs.

And if ya don’t like it, there’s plenty who do,

Ya shrew of a woman, ya vex me anew!”

Quoth Delia his wife, “Go off with ya, then,

To your whore in the town, if she’ll have you again.

It’s too great a bush! It clogs at my throat,

I have to drop breadcrumbs to find me way out.

It’s musty and mildy and reeking of skunk.

It’s seepy and weepy and matted with spunk.

Yet atop your dim head, you be  bald as an egg.

If ya walked upside down, I might take you to bed.”

“Ya hateful old bitch!” cried Samuel McGee.

Your wish is my oath, and I’ll rid you of me.”

And he dashed to the stable to saddle his mare,

But she pinched as he turned, and procured but a hair,

A single black hair, from his backside that fled

And she pinned the lone hair to the foot of her bed.

Unknowing, he rode to his lass in the town.

Every furlong he passed was a furlong unwound.

And reaching his mark, he sprang through the door,

“Ahoy, little wench, aye, ya saucy young whore,

I’ve a hogshead for thee, and a hectare about!”

And he pulled down his breaches, but what petered out

But a wee shrunken piglet, pink, nude, and blind

Blinked at the lady. And the lady declined.

“Get your bald little wiggler on back to your mate.

If it’s nudeness I craved, then I’d straddle your pate.”

So humbled, he mounted his dutiful mare

And plodded on home while he gathered his hair

In a great twining spool o’er meadow and heath,

Till he stood before Delia, a-flossing her teeth.

“So soon are you back? You look a might thin.”

And she put up the back of her hair with the pin.

And seizing his bundle, she rose from the bed,

And she plopped the great bush on his sorrowful head.

“Much better!” cried she, “there’s my blackforest ham!

Now get in this bed, you great fool of a man!”

Poem: A-Cunting We Shall Gae

This poem I did not write; rather, I discovered it amidst my family's archives.  It was written by my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather Ignatius Loyola Holmes, in the year 1227, somewhere in Scotland.  As you can see, it is written in the Anglo-High-Middle-Germanic-Descending-Derivative dialect, but I'm certain you can follow along.

A-Cunting We Shall Gae

O, will ye gae a-cunting, lad,

Along the cuntly shore?

For cunting have I ganged the dae,

I cannae cunt nae more.

But take ye up thy nonad rood

And beat yon quim bush nigh,

And plunge thy mandy potinkins deep

Till doon they cuntly lie.

Till doon they cuntly lie, me lad,

With great and fulsome cream,

For cunting is as cunting does,

Whate’re that cunting means.

But if a maid thou lovest,

Piss thyself nae to her face.

Piss not the shower golden-hued

That reeks of great disgrace.

What’s more, it burns thine eyes so well,

A fire a-hot as sin.

I know, for once I blew a yak.

(I’ll not do that again.)

And let us not e’er speak of Sanchez,

Dirty ‘neath the nose.

Why any man would smirch one so

I’m sure I’ll ne’er know.

And ne’er go a-gerbelin’, son,

What’s that shite all about.

If any maid requires that,

Ya slip rod stewart out.

There’s some sick and twisty perverts ‘bout,

And that you’ll learn ‘ere long.

So wrap that shite in lambskin, else

The plague will eat your dong.