Post by Barry Hodges, Bard of Gosforth on May 3, 2012 17:22:00 GMT
Ah such a wondrous place is Wandsworth,
Just o'er the Thames from Fulham Town,
Quite near to Putney which is so nice
And with a lovely 24/7 traffic jam
You wouldn't want to get caught in
After a gallon or two of Fuller's Ale.
But I am not here to reminisce
Of such deeds as those above
Oh no, I am here to tell you of a dear lady
Who replied to my Time Out Lonely Hearts
Ad asking for a goer with no strings attached
(apart from the obvious hygienic one, may I add).
Her name was Jeannie and her ginger hair
(both on her head and so on and so forth)
Was of the wiry Velcro variety,
Verging on Brillo Pads if I must be honest,
And guaranteed to scratch one's face during
An affectionate kiss from a beau such as I.
Thus, off to Jeannie's bijou pad I would trek
To console her in her widowhood each week
And, since she was all too well aware
Of her lowly status as my bit of number three lady
(in the elderly-do-it-out-of-sympathy sub-group)
She was grateful for each and every rendezvous.
Sad to say, not all was rosy in the garden
And her halitosis (initially in the first flush
of our relationship just about overlookable)
Became more and more pronounced
Until only a force-fed garlic mayonnaise
Could disguise its egregious horror.
One day, after wincing at wafts of decay,
Strong enough to melt polythene,
Blowing out of her gob I suggested
She might benefit from a visit to her dentist,
Which caused her to smile ruefully
But at least she kept her mouth closed.
How was I to know it was not just tooth rot,
But the symptom of her rotting interiors?
Dear reader, just imagine how I felt
When she popped her clogs soon after?
And I still felt a pang of guilt
When I threw all my photos of her out.
Just o'er the Thames from Fulham Town,
Quite near to Putney which is so nice
And with a lovely 24/7 traffic jam
You wouldn't want to get caught in
After a gallon or two of Fuller's Ale.
But I am not here to reminisce
Of such deeds as those above
Oh no, I am here to tell you of a dear lady
Who replied to my Time Out Lonely Hearts
Ad asking for a goer with no strings attached
(apart from the obvious hygienic one, may I add).
Her name was Jeannie and her ginger hair
(both on her head and so on and so forth)
Was of the wiry Velcro variety,
Verging on Brillo Pads if I must be honest,
And guaranteed to scratch one's face during
An affectionate kiss from a beau such as I.
Thus, off to Jeannie's bijou pad I would trek
To console her in her widowhood each week
And, since she was all too well aware
Of her lowly status as my bit of number three lady
(in the elderly-do-it-out-of-sympathy sub-group)
She was grateful for each and every rendezvous.
Sad to say, not all was rosy in the garden
And her halitosis (initially in the first flush
of our relationship just about overlookable)
Became more and more pronounced
Until only a force-fed garlic mayonnaise
Could disguise its egregious horror.
One day, after wincing at wafts of decay,
Strong enough to melt polythene,
Blowing out of her gob I suggested
She might benefit from a visit to her dentist,
Which caused her to smile ruefully
But at least she kept her mouth closed.
How was I to know it was not just tooth rot,
But the symptom of her rotting interiors?
Dear reader, just imagine how I felt
When she popped her clogs soon after?
And I still felt a pang of guilt
When I threw all my photos of her out.
