Tuesday, October 15, 2013

A poem what I wrote

As you all know, when the muse strikes me (and she frequently does, because she's like that) I have been known to write poetry.

I suspect none of you like it much, but I don't really care because the male majority of you are masochists and probably deserve to suffer by reading bad poetry, while I live in hope that the few female readers might be so angered that they resort to abuse in the comments.... mmmm.

So, anyway, here is a silly little poetic parody.  Of a kid's poem.  I'm not going to use the name of the author, as I don't want children or anyone looking for things for children to find the blog.  Oh all right, well it sounds like "Dokter Soos", OK? 

I mean, you either know the poem or you don't, and if you don't you won't like it anyway, so...  Original is here.

 Did I ever ...?

When I was quite young
And small-cocked (to my shame)
I met a wise domme (quite like Gloria Brame)
And she told me the following startling fable,
While strapping my hands to the legs of the table.
“When you’re feeling the fear
When you’re beaten and cold
And your safeword is near
You should do as you’re told!
Just tell yourself, cuckie, you’re really quite lucky
Some people are much more
Oh ever so much more
So much, muchly much more unlucky than you!"

Be grateful you’re not in the cruel Czech Republic
With Madame Kat'rina, performing her sub trick
Up there on the stage, helping out with the magic
With consequences that for the sub are quite tragic.

She fastens the box, round your balls and your cock
And closes the lid, so it clicks in the lock.
Then she taps her wand thrice, while the viewers look on
And opens the lid – and your balls are both gone!
She smiles and bows gratefully to the applause
As you scream out in pain in your gag, for of course
You’ve seen the trick sides, and the knife that resides
In the hollow, to cut you when Madame decides
Leaving you – well… with a loss, with a lack
And none of her magic is bringing it back.


Think she works you too hard?
Think of poor Andy Lard
He has to dig holes, ‘neath the whip of a guard
And when her shift’s ended
His task’s not suspended
The night guard comes out, and she sees what her friend did -
The holes with their earth piles, built up right beside ‘em
She thinks they’d look neater, with earth back inside them!
And laughingly flicking her taser to ‘ten’
She orders poor Andy to fill them again.
So think of that, cuckie,
Remember you’re lucky
Some people are much more unlucky than you.


Oh the jobs people work at! Out east near Southend
A young toilet slave, nicknamed Harry U-bend
Is strapped to the floor, his hands tight by his side,
With a rubber ring holding his mouth gaping wide
His job is to lie there for hour after hour
Alongside the bath and the basin and shower
Until she appears and she sits down above
 - this lady to whom he has pledged all his love -
And soon she starts reading, and sometimes starts humming
And Harry – poor Harry – knows just what is coming
I’ll spare you the details, they’re messy and smelly
He swallows it all like it’s ice cream with jelly!
And shortly thereafter, it’s time for the wipe
And the tissue is also thrown into the pipe
That’s plumbed into Harry – he’s forced then to swallow
And gulp it all down, with a tampon to follow
(but only once monthly, to Harry’s relief
As he finds that the little threads catch in his teeth).
And every so often some friends come to tea…

You’re not U-bend Harry, you’re lucky - you see?


And poor Manny Morti
At school at age forty!
His teacher, Miss Bircham, is stubborn and haughty
When he came to her, she said she’d teach him by rote
All the poems of Java, word perfect to quote
But he doesn’t speak Javan and so he’s still learning
Right there at his desk with his bottom all burning
And there he will stay, with no breaks, not a breather
For his teacher, Miss Bircham ,speaks no Javan either!


Think your clothes are too tight?
Try the town of Van Krite
Where the men are tight-laced every Saturday night.
Their wives like to dress them in clothes that compress them
To punish, humiliate, crush and oppress them
And this works just swell, though for men it’s sheer hell
So they’re meek and obey, and they never rebel
So each night on the Sunday, by then barely breathing
They plead for release from their cramped awkward sheathing
And by Monday morning, they're free to go out
And work at their jobs, while their wives lounge about

From Monday for six days they labour away
Returning on at last on the punishment day
They hand over their earnings, every last cent
With all the receipts for the little they’ve spent
Then sometimes they’ll get just a few with the cane,
Before it’s the time for tight-lacing again!

Be thankful, my cuckie, you're really quite lucky!

Some people are much more...

..oh ever so much more...
... so much muchly much more...

...unlucky than you!



  1. Great poem, Servitor!

    I like the various punishments that can be assigned by our srtict but just superiors when we offend or rebel (women control the justice system these days).

    "Ma'am , yes ma'amm it's a honour to dig these holes every day for life dressed only in the stadard uniform of pink shorts and canvas sneakers.Showers once a week"

    "I'll now also receive special line writing education every night in my cell.from Miss Bircham too/Thank you, ma'am (sigh).

    "You hve a change for me on the weekend? Thank you ma'am!..I'll be Miss X dressed incredibly tightly in that little pink number ...?.At leasat i won;t hasve to dig holes dressed like that... Oh I see, my pleasure ma'am when you put it like that"! I now understand that crime asd sexism do not pay!"

    Hi Mis Servitor, ..your'e on the same punishment ..nice pigtails..

    1. Thank you, Mr X. You're very kind, but I'm not sure it was a great poem. Barely a poem at all. But I enjoyed writing it, and I'm glad at least one person enjoyed reading it, sufficiently to writre a long, creative and amusing comment!