"His Dankle was Shankle" - a bit of fun in verse

Discussion in 'Sexual Fetishes and Fantasies' started by Susan Strict, Oct 15, 2006.

  1. Susan Strict

    Susan Strict New Member

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    He brinkled the smarkset as she grend the clops
    And her misket was whisket with jinrendy trops,
    Her sighs filled the treeg as he tried to slambok
    But his dankle was shankle; it slanked like a gnock.

    “Get it reedjit and turgone,” she cried with a brint
    “I’ve no use for a primply whose panshing’s gone fint.
    If your rodkit won’t dank then you’d best get some breg
    For it’s only a scantlode at Arthur’s and Weg.”

    “Just give me a haddrab,” he said with a freel,
    “I know I can slambok like any good kreel.
    I’m nervous and spargone, my weef’s like a milj
    So just krankle my dankle, I’ll soon slik the filj.”

    “You got no chance,” she spungled with slom on her frone,
    “If you can’t make it turgone, you krank on your own!”
    “You could smunter my fissage,” he said with a grin,
    “You can bet that my lelk will make your misket frin.”

    “That’s a felch of a risk that you’re taking, my lurge,”
    She warned, though her enns both grew harge at the murge.
    “I might smangle your nadle or crangle your nod,
    Or in grasmic your bringling might enjon and jod.”

    “It’s a risk that I’ll take,” he confuelled with skeef,
    “For in truth I think smunter will reedjit my weef.”
    “On your own nod!” she cried as she nangled her misk
    And he lay on his sparn while she slimpled the hisk.

    ‘Tween her sumples he lelked as she smuntered his fiss
    And the treeg salled and merrowed her mungrowing tiss
    Then he lelked and he lelked ‘til he could lelk no more
    At her misket so whisket o’er him on the floor.

    “Don’t stop now!” she cried as her grasmic drew near,
    And she pressed on his nadle with misket and trear.
    “I can’t bringel,” he munged, “My nod’s enjon and durm!”
    But her hearing was deaf to the cries ‘neath her lurm.

    Now she shangled and fingled, she shundered and flod,
    While he enjonned and jod, and she crangled his nod.
    Her sumples gipped tighter, his nadle felt brunk,
    And he feared that his bringel was finally sunk.

    With a shunder she grasmicked, a screek rent the air
    And the whisket near drowned him so helplessly there.
    She fell on her sparn as he fought for his bringe
    And she lay there all fingling and stummered with jinge.

    “Hey, look!” came his cry as he raised off his sparn,
    “My dankle is reedjit, it’s turgone I clarn!
    Let me slambok the misket like any good kreel
    And I know that I’ll soon make you shunder and preel.

    She shook her head sadly, “I’m grasmicked right out,
    And my misket is hurd as a sandwamper’s jout.
    I can’t help you with dankling, I’m karkled and frone,
    As I told you before, you must krank on your own”
     
  2. HerHubby

    HerHubby The SF Poet Laureate
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    Ha, ha! Kind of reminds me of Lewis Carroll!
     
  3. HerHubby

    HerHubby The SF Poet Laureate
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    Well a goon wanted poon
    so he hummed a sexy tune
    while he hid on a beach
    near the back of a dune
    when he saw a big boobed girl
    exposing her squirrel
    while she laid in the sun
    masturbating just for fun
    then the goon he came out
    caused the girl to give a shout
    'til she saw his big dong
    and she heard his sexy song
    then she yelled "shove it in"
    with a grin o'er her chin
    so that goon, thus in luck
    well he started to fuck
    that big boobed girl
    in her squirrel
    and that girl she did whirl
    so they did it doggie style
    and they fucked quite a while
    and they both had a smile
    on the beach near the dune
    while they sang a sexy tune!
     
  4. HerHubby

    HerHubby The SF Poet Laureate
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    I'll be that all the dead poets are turning over in their graves, ha, ha!
     
  5. Susan Strict

    Susan Strict New Member

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    IF you want to make the dead poets spin in their graves, try this one:

    The Destruction of Free Will

    (with apologies to Lord Byron - Sennacherib will never be quite the same again)


    Their Mistress came down like a wolf on the fold,
    Like a Goddess she shone in black leather and gold,
    With the crack of her whip men would kneel or would flee
    As she captured and twisted the minds of the Free.

    Like a whirlwind she filled all around her with dread
    Like a plague she invaded each heart and each head
    With a single command she exerted her power
    As she grasped at their souls men would yield and cower.

    Like an Angel of Dominance, her rage like a blast
    She breathed power in the face of each man as she passed.
    When the eyes of that victim went glassy and dim
    Then she knew her control was complete over him.

    So they lay in submission, her slaves one and all,
    Every man at her feet, on her bed, at her call,
    Every spirit was broken, just toys at her whim,
    Every body was hers, every face, every limb.

    Then she turned on her heel; she looked down on the scene;
    She saw nothing remained of Free Will that had been.
    Her destruction complete she strode swiftly away,
    One more conquest was hers, now she sought other prey.

    Susan
     
  6. HerHubby

    HerHubby The SF Poet Laureate
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    Sounds kind of like Puss in Boots, melicious or Rose, ha, ha! ;> You're a great poet, Susan! I enjoy your work and look for you to win your Nobel Prize for Literature some day! Keep up the good work!
     
    #6 HerHubby, Oct 17, 2006
    Last edited: Oct 17, 2006