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Lady In The Van

January 30, 2010

Here he is again, and now he’s drinking down the pub
Looking for a sexy girl his ego for to rub
And he looks across the bar and there she is, she looks so sweet
In that naughty low-cut number she looks good enough to eat
So he swaggers over casually, his beer glass in his hand
Thinking of the words he knows that she will understand
But before he opens up his mouth she stops him with a line
“I know just what you’re after boy, shut up and please don’t whine.”

And while he stands there speechless she continues in this way:
“But worry not, I feel the same, come on and make my day.”
He gets his mouth in gear at last, he says: “Your place or mine?”
She says, “My transit van’s outside – yeah, that should do us fine.”
And sure enough, she speaks no lie, it’s in the pub car park
And in the back, a mattress and a lamp to light the dark
Oh wow, he thinks, this is the stuff, and off comes all his kit
She shuts the doors and stops a moment, says “Now wait a bit …

“I think I ought to warn you that I’m into kinky stuff
I’m really into bondage – do you think you’re hard enough?”
He says, “Give me the whips and chains, I’ll tie you to the bed …”
She interrupts him with, “No way, I’m tying you down instead.”
And he lets her have her way with him, spread-eagled totally
And then she peels her dress off – boy, is that some sight to see
Leather boots up to the thigh, a studded leather Basque
He wonders what will happen but his mouth’s too dry to ask

She thinks a while: “What can I use? A whip, a flail, a stick?
Aha – I know of just the thing – yeah, that should do the trick.”
And out the window she does reach, the aerial she snaps
And on his prostrate body gives some little playful taps
The pain’s intense as she commences laying in with force
And now he’s certain that he’s never going to stay the course
He wriggles and he writhes and starts to wrestle with the chain
She hasn’t fixed it very well, and soon he’s free again.

He grabs his clothes and dances off away and down the street
Hopping on one leg he pulls his trousers o’er his feet
And pulls them up, pulls on his shirt and jacket on the run
“Come back you loser,” cries the girl, “you’re ruining all my fun!”
Her boots are so uncomf’table to travel in at speed
That she can’t catch him, he’s away, our hero ain’t no weed
He finds a tiny side-street and a likely little pub
And dives inside and finds a corner, heart goes dub-a-dub

He can’t remember getting home, he’s absolutely bladdered
And when he wakes next morning he’s still absolutely shattered
His arms are sore, his legs are bruised, he’s quite bereft of cash
And all along his belly there’s a nasty little rash
First thing he does, he’s off to see his local friendly Quack
He needs a decent sick note or he’s going to get the sack
And there he is, he’s in the chair, and taking off his shirt
And tells his story start to finish, one almighty spurt

The doctor takes a look, and listens, and his face does split
Into a mighty cheesy grin, and starts to have a fit
His face turns blue, and tears arise into his jolly eyes
And says, “I know what’s wrong with you, my lad, and no surprise.”
Our hero is bewildered, and is in a royal tizz,
“You’re not supposed to laugh, come on and tell me what’s the biz?”
“The answer’s very simple,” gasps the Doctor, with a wheeze,
“It seems to me you must have caught van aerial disease.”

16-Oct-2000
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One Comment leave one →
  1. January 30, 2010 11:28 am

    awesome poem,
    a beautiful story in poetry form,
    lovely post.

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