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Their tale to tell is much the same
with looks that helped their claim to fame
Blonde and curvy, they got the jobs
In films and shows they flaunted their gobs
Deep, husky voices from too many fags
Scantily clothed in all the top mags
Make-up and peroxide over abundant
They could never ever be redundant
Marriage was multiple, two a penny
Own homes in Cannes, not Abergavenny
No doubt they had their special talents
In ads and the like for painted talons
B B, M M, and Zsa Zsa Gabor
Iconic beauties that most men adore
And models for women to emulate
enhancing their chance of getting a date
B B now old, the others since gone
Etched lines in face and gray, not blonde
Her love of animals has earned her repute
Her racist views we might well dispute
These women famed for enviable looks
Are immortalized in stacks of books
Although their films are somewhat dated
They’re still viewed and still well rated.
A doctor with enormous breasts
used put male colleagues to the test.
When leaning in to operate,
they really could not concentrate.
When on the ward round in a group,
a breast would end up in the crook
of a male doctor's arm close by.
Make him blush if he was shy.
She herself was oblivious to all.
Especially when she was on call.
Her supply of scrub sizes limited.
Forced her to be uninhibited.
She found her calling on Maternity.
A female finding her fraternity.
Just a breast among the many
engorged boobs, two a penny.
Chinwag Pies
A crowd gathers
Where the poor run wild,
Relentlessly taunting
An innocent child,
Scathing, scalding
Thieving eyes,
Scrimping, scraping
Chinwag pies.
Two a penny
For those that beg,
A clip round the ear
For your gammy leg,
Gossiping mothers
Cannot abide
The bastard child
Of the old dockside.
"Hello sailor,
Empty your pocket,
Got me shilling
For me golden locket?"
Ne're-do-well harlot,
Talk of the town,
Don't belong round here
In her five bob gown.
"What about me boy?
An urchin for sure,
Spare him the price
Of being poor"
Toss him a penny,
Toss him a pound,
We don't want his sort
Skulking around,
Shove him this way,
Shove him that,
Shove him in a coffin
With his begging hat.
The crowd disperses
Back to their lives
Of hen pecked husbands
And drunken wives.
Suburban gardens,
Plastic flowers,
Hair in curlers,
Nattering for hours,
Over the fence
Spinning their lies
With folded arms
And chinwag pies.
Quizmasters often test mentalities,
by asking folks to name pluralities,
of things of many different sorts.
Like, soldiers might be called 'cohorts'.
There are 'flights' of geese and jets and stairs,
my socks are sometimes found in 'pairs'.
A young girl's curls could hang in 'bangs',
and crooks might hang about in 'gangs'.
Such gangs could join to form a 'mafia',
alas that only rhymes with 'raffia'.
Apes, as you'd know, can make a 'shrewdness',
could rednecks joined become a 'rudeness'?
And though Collingwood fans are two a penny,
more than one is just 'Too Bloody Many'.
Unless you have been in the same pub or football ground with Collingwood fans, or on the same train or tram or continent, you will never understand.
Dexterity, the fluid ease of two-a-penny vamps,
Their fingers locked as vices, seize the stomach cramps,
Abruptly tug and lobster squeeze the strands of flesh inside,
Felled down upon the scabrous knees with tongue and muscle tied.
Knot that slips around the throat and snaps the neck in two,
Constraint to keep the pain afloat and turn the tissues blue,
A mass of tension gets the goat, assuring all the while,
A polished wooden overcoat to end the days in style.
Tangled by the cords of life reefed ‘round the heart and mind,
Suspicions, panic, husband, wife, the toe tag ties that bind,
Confusion, stress, to drive the knife until one cannot cope,
Hang the days with strain and strife, give ‘em enough rope.
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