In a conference, lonely Fred posted,|
His plea for a friendly young co-ed.
The response was frenetic,
From gals energetic,
And he died when his modem exploded.
A Cajun gourmet named LaSalle,|
Is the chef at dat place on Canal.
He put lotta spice
On your red beans an' rice,
And make lightnin' shoot outta your bowel!
My back aches, my pussy is sore,|
I simply can't fuck any more,
I'm covered with sweat,
And you haven't come yet,
And my God, it's a quarter to four!
Said a swinging young girl named Lyth|
Whose virtue was largely a myth,
"Try as hard as I can,
I can't find a man
That it's fun to be virtuous with."
The youth who frequent picture palaces|
Have no use for psychoanalysis,
And although Dr Freud
Is distinctly annoyed,
They cling to their long-standing fallacies.
There once was a queen of Bulgaria|
Whose bush had grown hairier and hairier,
Till a prince from Peru
Who came up for a screw
Had to hunt for her cunt with a terrier.
There once was a fiesty young terrier|
Who liked to bite girls on the derriere.
He'd yip and he'd yap,
Then leap up and snap;
And the fairer the derriere the merrier.
There was a young girl of Angina|
Who stretched catgut across her vagina.
From the love-making frock,
(with the proper sized cock)
Came Tocata and Fugue in D minor.
There was a young girl of Darjeeling|
Who could dance with such exquisite feeling.
There was never a sound
For miles around,
Save of fly-buttons hitting the ceiling.
There was a young lady named Clair|
Who possessed a magnificent pair.
Or at least so I thought,
Till I saw one get caught
On a thorn, and began losing air.