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!

 

So...

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!