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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I'd chosen you as my flunky - Your hair - Neanderthal red, You'd hurry towards my shrill calling, De-cloth me and roll me to bed. 'Textured', you woo-ed, 'mild and creamy', Said I'd never last long on the shelf, I blushed, put out, yet warming within, Soon began to value myself. Brought you into my secrets - my tales - My concerns for my daughter in New South Wales. The fortunes she's had, the good and the bad, With losers and fellas playing the lad. Alfred, all heirs and graces, got her high - then let her heart fall, Next was Burt, all joker - no aces - A bad card - at least Alf had balls. As I matured, you wielded my power, Called me crumbly and vintage to boot, Said I'd become too sharp and sour, Couldn't even charm Burt's old cheroot. Then one night, you crept through my cavern, Up the back route - thought you wouldn't get caught, Flew into my room like a raven, There to club me, but this Olde Dame fought. You'll not swindle my wares from my warren, My henchmen will hang you to dry, I'm as fertile as much as I'm barren, It was futile for you even to try. So they carried you swift from my sanctuary, Beyond the gates and the forge, Past the grave of Seamus Erectus, Then threw you head first in the gorge. You fast roped that ring on my finger, As I wove your bear skin with my silk, I'd unveil my paps as you'd linger, To spill jokes over my sour milk. Though a Dame-sell, my daughter may well be, You'll no more draw milk from me, To the past with Back Passage Billy Is now this Dame Mother's decree.
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