Puella, laboranda

(Ode to a Girl)
by Dvid
trunc’t’d, with no apologies to the Amorist

Oh Jill is fair, and her attire superfluous,
And she is so the wench I wish and wish t’have.
Idly I’ll lay with her, as if I loved so hot,
And like a vixen she will rock the bed at trotty-trotty-trot.

But then, disaster! Great gods grieved they had bestowed
The benefit which lewdly I for-slowed.
Why was I cursed? Why made king to refuse it?
Chuff-like had I not gold and could not use it?

Yet boarded I the nubile Nancy twice,
(in her parent’s living room, they upstairs: how nice)
And What’s-her-Name, and the crabbèd Karen, Queen
Miss Slitty took it in her ear upon a summer’s e’en,

Yet, notwithstanding (congratulate him on this fine pun),
like one dead it lay,
Drooping more than a rose pulled (fuck, another) yesterday.
Now, when he should jet, he fails to stand upright
Should crave his task, and seek to be at fight.

But when she saw it would by no means stand,
But still drooped down, regarding not her hand,
‘Why mockst thou me, Mister?’ she wept. ‘Or, being ill,
Who bade thee lie down here against thy will?’

But then, regaining her composure, sweetly smiled
Reclined a bit, regarded her furred Castor, wild
And taking up her vibrant ’pliance soft
Said, ‘On your way, mate’; (I left her, jilling off).

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