Today´s meeting was enhanced by cake from Jane. Anyone else got a birthday coming up?
Spurred on by the risqué thoughts of Glynn´s soldier in his story, I offer a poem I wrote earlier (shades of Blue Peter).
It´s called: Pastoral Pleasures.
There´s scandal in the village
Rumour´s running rife
They say our sainted vicar´s
Gone off with someone´s wife.
They think it´s busty Annie
The barmaid from the pub
Who´s into acupuncture
And gives an oily rub.
The vicar had lumbago
And Angie put him right
But then things got quite steamy
One torrid summer night.
Last seen amongst the gravestones
The couple bonked till dawn
Then left the village boundries
That fateful dewy morn.
The pub has lost its takings
The silver´s knicked from church
The landlord and the vicar´s wife
Are both left in the lurch.
Us villagers are gobsmacked
The vicar was so shy
Who´d´ve dreamt he´d get it up
To rollick in the rye.
See you all next week.
Chris Johansson
Chrissie, Groovy baby! Another brill' effort. Think I did it wrong the last time, so I'm having another bash!
ReplyDeleteI'll show you something now - how to write bad poetry expertly. Following on with the birthday theme mentioned by Nik:-
Birthdays are like ladies drawers and should go down not up.
We'll celebrate mine with red, red wine supped from a china cup.
I'll be sixty and a little bit, which really is a horror.
I wish to be as old as the lady I feel; she'll be twenty one tomorrow!