I love the poetry that people write here on Xanga and I also love all the recommended poems. It always makes me jealous. I used to be able to write poetry. In fact in college I had a poetry class and the professor referred to me as "his poet" for the rest of college and even after graduation. I think I lost some of that ability the time I flipped my car off a 30 foot cliff and was knocked out for a long period of time. Anyway I found some poems that I enjoy.
"Please Fondle Me" author unknown but shows up around 1905 but could be much older.
Put your arms around me, darling,
Kiss my cheeks until I blush,
Tickle me until I tremble,
If I murmur, make me hush.
Keep your arms around me, darling,
Put your hand within my breast,
Take me to your bedroom, darling,
Give to me what I love best.
Give it to me, lovely darling!
You can please me if you try –
Keep it up a little longer,
Do it good and let me die!
Drive it up into my belly!
Fuck me ’til I faint away!
Try and tear my cunt wide open,
Break it off and let it stay.
"That Portion of a Woman" by Alan Patrick Herbert
That portion of a woman that appeals to man’s depravity
Is constructed with considerable care,
And what appears to you to be a simple little cavity
Is really an elaborate affair.
And doctors of distinction who’ve examined these phenomena
In numbers of experimental dames,
Have made a list of all the things in feminine abdomena,
And given them delightful Latin names.
There’s the vulva, the vagina, and the jolly perinium;
The hymen (which is found in many brides),
And lots of little gadgets you would love if you could see ‘em:
The clitoris and lord knows what besides.
What a pity then it is, that when we common people chatter
Of the mysteries to which I have referred,
We should use for such a delicate and complicated matter
Such a very short and unattractive word.
"Don Pringello's Tale: The Fellowship of the Holy Nuns, or, The Monk's Wise Judgement" by John Hall Stevenson
There is a noble town, called Ghent,
A city famous for its wares,
For Priests and Nuns, and Flanders mares,
And for the best of fish in Lent.
There you may see, threat’ning destruction,
A hundred forts and strong redoubts,
Just like Vauban’s, with ins and outs,
And covered-ways of love’s construction.
In one, constructed as above,
There dwelt two Nuns of the same age,
Join’d like two birds in the same cage,
Both by necessity and love.
In towns of idleness and sloth,
Where the chief trade is tittle-tattle,
Though Priests are commoner than cattle,
They had but one between them both.
Our Nuns should have had two at least,
In Ghent they’re common as great guns:
Which made it hard upon our Nuns,
And harder still upon the Priest.
But he was worthy of all praise,
With spreading shoulders and a chest,
A leg, a chine, and all the rest,
Like Hercules of the Farnese.
Amongst the Nuns there was a notion,
That these two Sisters were assigned
To him, for a severer kind
Of penitential devotion.
His penance lasted a whole year;
And he had such a piece of work,
If it had been for turning Turk,
It could not have been more severe.
Our Nuns, which is no common case,
Living together without jangling,
All on a sudden fell a wrangling
About precedency and place.
They both with spleen were like to burst,
Like two proud Misses when they fight,
At an Assembly, for the right
Of being taken out the first.
Before the Priest they made this clatter;
Between them both he was perplexed,
And studied to find out a Text,
To end the controverted matter.
Children, said he, scratching his sconce,
I should be better pleased than you,
Could I divide myself in two,
And satisfy you both at once.
Angels, perhaps, may have such powers;
But it is fit and seasonable,
That you should be more reasonable,
Whilst you’re with Beings such as ours.
Be friends, and listen to the Teacher;
Cease your vain clamour and dispute;
Be ye like little fishes mute,
Before Saint Anthony the Preacher.
To end at once all disputation,
I’ll set my back against that gate,
And there produce, erect and straight,
The cause of all your altercation.
But first you both shall hooded be,
Both so effectually blinded,
‘Twill be impossible to find it,
Except by Chance or Sympathy.
Which of you first, be it agreed,
The rudder of the Church can seize,
Like Peter’s Vicar with his keys,
Shall keep the helm, and have the lead;
She shall go first, I mean to say,
And have precedence every day.
The Nuns were tickled with the jest,
They were content; and he contrived
To give the helm, for which they strived,
To her that managed it the best.
"The Washing Rhyme" a nursery rhyme from England that predates 1846
They that wash on Monday
Have all the week to dry;
They that wash on Tuesday
Are not so much awry;
They that wash on Wednesday
Are not so much to blame;
They that wash on Thursday,
Wash for shame;
They that wash on Friday,
Wash in need;
And they that wash on Saturday,
Oh! they’re sluts indeed.
Let's see what's on the docket...going to do a tattoo and links post this afternoon and then if time is right, I'll get my celebrity round up posted this evening if not I'll get it posted some time tomorrow while I'm doing laundry...
I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. I was going to make a snarky comment about this bird being one that I'd like to eat but I'm sure most of you already know that is one of my proclivities. Is it any wonder seeing how verbose I am?
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