Best Imaginationfather Poems
Guess what? Another true story,
About a beautiful dame called Corrie.
Her allurement enraptured all men folk,
I did say this was a true story and not a joke?
Her tight dress and peachy ass, men would cry and plea,
Even blind Jim stopped, pulled down his glasses, willing himself to see.
When she walked the clock would stop to hear the tick tock of her heels,
Believe me this woman was dripping with sex appeal.
Every morning Corrie went into town to get her sick father’s pills,
She knew when she got them; one of the men would offer to pay the bills.
Now there was an evil merchant filthy rich had lent her father money,
It was time for him to pay up or he would take this honey (the daughter).
But to be a sport he conjured up a devious deal,
When he proposed the deal, it made her father feel more ill.
The merchant said “I have a bag and will put two stones in it.”
One white, the other black and here is the deal if you may permit?
“If your beautiful daughter picks the white stone,”
“You debt will be cancelled and you can take her home.”
“If it’s the black, I will cancel what you owe me,”
“But your daughter will be my bride you see.”
The ill father protested at first then gave in,
As they stood in town her father begged her to win.
Now while every man was looking at the divine girl,
She, the only one saw the merchant place two black stones, and so the bag he did fill.
She shook with horror as she picked a stone, thinking as she frowned
Then suddenly dropped the stone on the ground
The merchant raged “Now how are we to know which stone you took out?”
“Look in the bag and the one left will tell you what I chose” she did shout.
Everyone focused on the bag to see if she’d wed him or not,
The black one his hand reaches in and got.
Her father’s eyes lit up and he screamed with delight
His debt cancelled and she wouldn’t marry this merchant two foot in height.
She remains the tester of men’s hearts today,
They are mesmerised by her ass and they way she make it sway.
*Lateral thinking E. Bono*
I want to run wild through that berry field
behind the brick house my father bought
when I was seven and skinny and still
a natural blond with naive, blue eyes.
I might even wear a white, linen dress
and satin gloves like I wore the last time
I saw it on Easter Sunday when I was nine.
It would be just past dusk,
and the snuffed-out sun would veil
my pale skin and shade the tip
of my bridgeless, up-turned nose.
Feverishly, my white gloved hands
would ravage the bushes, ripping
at bloated berries until
my wrists were smeared with blood-black juice.
I would shove a fistful in my mouth,
sour drool staining my thin lips blue,
much bluer than my stale, gray eyes,
and I'd lick berries from my dripping skin
until my father called me home.