The evening feels ripe for mid-century English poetry.
Miss M. Gordon-Pass, Miss M. Gordon-Pass,
All sprightly and thrumming away on the grass,
Your forehand and backhand, your drop shot and lob,
I’d love you to bounce up and down on my knob.
Love-thirty, love-forty, you threshing machine!
I crave you to harbour my pink submarine,
The grace of a boy on the Twickenham grass,
Your bottom is killing me, Meg Gordon-Pass.
Miss Meg Gordon-Pass, Miss Meg Gordon-Pass,
Please paddle your racquet all over my arse,
Whack my raw buttocks all tender and splayed,
And rub them asunder with pink lemonade.
Oh Margaret, Meg, I am longing for you,
My scrotum is aching and knotted and blue,
Spring over the tennis net, loosen your hair,
Let me pull down your pants in those woods over there.
I shall stow all my luggage and tighten your straps,
I shall jiggle your rudder and waggle your flaps,
Miss Meg Gordon-Pass, drop your balls, come with me,
Chocks away in the shade of that sycamore tree.
But Maggie, Miss Gordon-Pass, why so afraid?
Let me unclasp your sports bra in yon leafy glade,
Why, you’re trembling frightfully, pallid and ashen,
Your eyeballs, they roll in peculiar fashion.
You’ve emptied your bladder, Miss M. Gordon-Pass,
You’ve dribbled and sprayed and you’ve shat in the grass,
And now my new trousers are covered in piss,
Pray Miss Gordon-Pass, what’s the meaning of this?
You are phobic of ticks? Why didn’t you say?
Fasten hold of my arm, I shall whisk you away,
To the lavatory where you can watch in the glass
As I lather your gusset, Miss M. Gordon-Pass.