Old  Regime

The wizened king, in mood of joy,
Disrobes amid the court.
His lords and ladies – and his boy! -
Soon follow in this sport.
All kissy bare they venture out
Into the king’s back yard.
‘Tis ten below, wind nips the snout,
And makes the fingers hard.
An hour they play in snow and ice
And then they all were stiff!
We now see statues –
Weren’t they nice To leap from life’s cold cliff!

Peter fit his horny cock
Within a musty mildewed sock,
Then squeezed the sock, so slick with sweat,
Some extra body-juice to get!
But Pity! for the weenie got soft
Despite this exercise, which oft
Had made the bone some glue reveal,
As if regurgitating eel!
But still determined to be hot,
He took his little dog, named Spot,
And lifted high the bashful tail
To view the beast’s sweet rectal vale.
Horny once again was Pete,
His eyes upon this canine meat!
He came – Ta dah! Ta dah! –
‘Twas really neat.

The convent’s pretty pond of pee
Is calling pious little me.
I want to bathe in that sweet bin,
Fresh, fragrant with the nuns’ urine.
Disrobed, and moonlit spanky nude,
I mingle in the transformed food.
Yea, urinely I join that flow
Whose Glory may I hope to know.
Pee, wash me of all stain,
And I will come to Thee again!

 

 

 

The Yellow Moat

“Good day, Milady” says the King,
“Good day,” the Queen replies.
Then both begin this ancient thing
By closing fast their eyes.
They take a place deep in the well,
Their subjects gather round,
The King and Queen now charge the swell
To pee upon the ground.
The people, free, a-urinee,
And King and Queen are sprayed,
And as the hours to darkness flee,
The well fills up – what play!
When dawn is nigh, the King and Queen
In lukewarm liquid float,
Their bodies ‘mid the bubbles seen
In this, the Yellow Moat.

 

 

 

Song

Lying languid on the prairie,
Peter sought a suckling dairy.
Milk, it seemed, would sate his yen.
Instead ‘twas only mighty manna,
Two gross grapes and one banana
Basking in a bushy glen.
Through Peter’s chute
Traversed the fruit.
The desert’s cry: “Again! Again!”

The empty bottle, made for Coke,
Was First Love, initial guest.
One hot June night, half for a joke,
I eased it up – What jest!
But now such joys are aged hat,
For now, with friends so queer,
I daily feel the warm pink fat
Of penes up my rear.

 

 

 

Biology Class

We, assembled in the lab,
For a lecture far from drab,
Watch our chosen hunky classmate
Dick, the teacher’s pet and assmate!
Now, according to our wish,
He bestrides the porcelain dish,
Thus to empty his full his full bladder
Lest he err, and hence feel sadder.
But now, let’s think on urine’s course,
Let us ponder its fair source,
Which in this case is Dick’s slick bod
Accoutered now in clothes so mod
Which we must strip if we’re to see
The real watershed of pee –
For such is the anatomy.
So now the lesson has progressed
And Dick has amicably undressed.
Note: muscles, bone and skin all give
A jot of pee; each like a sieve
That takes the food and yields the pee
To flow through vein and artery.
And as we see, these drops come out
Through this limp faucet, this pink spout,
This pliant puppy ringed with fuzz
Which now is not so limp as ‘twas.
You see, this organ’s loyalty
Is not directed just to pee;
Another function, intertwined,
Yields its own, quite different wine;
Great jots of which, if we’re correct,
Young Dick laid here will soon eject.
Ah, there! You see, our talk has moved
Dear Dick to fancy he’s engrooved.
We leave him now to do his will
While we our minds with knowledge fill.
Tomorrow’s topic, gentle class,
Shall be the hamlike human ass.

 

 

 

Fragment

Peter, why are you so eager,
Longing for that girl, whose meager
Charms she’ll flaunt as sweaty bait,
Then leave you in a horny state,
Without a pretty pussied mate
To take that swollen major leaguer’s
Juicy and delicious freight!!

 

 

 

The snake of shit crawled out its hole
With grace, and ease, and slime.
This eelish guest of Ricky’s hole
Slid out in perfect time.
We love the view, the opening bare
And coy, so wanting to be filled,
Yes, Ricky’s aperture in air
Pouts pertly and is thrilled!
And so, to ease this rounding cave
We take a chunk of ice
And slide it up poor Richard’s nave –
It lodges, firm and nice!

 

 

 

College Days, 1970

The Eastern world with all its gold
And romance, jewels and tombs of old,
Is beckoning to this poor lad
Who yearns by time’s charm to be had.
In History class I met a boy
From fair Levant, where pain and joy
Live side by side, and turbaned wealth
And oils and cushions add to health.
Would this dark boy teach me his tricks,
His ways with hashish pipes and pricks?
Would this body, viewed in class,
Bare his soul, and bare his ass?

 

 

 

Romance

The urine of the glass was spilled
Upon the lacework, soft and frilled,
And when the drying sun set in,
The yellowed fabric smelled like gin;
And since it did, ‘twas tossed away
Into the bin that very day.
But O! Fair Fortune salvaged it!
A needy boy descried this bit
Of noble knitting in the trash
‘Mid rotting plums and dirty ash.
He took it home, and Mother dear
Exclaimed “Well, well, what have we here? -
A lacy collar soaked in beer?”
She was about to use the rag
To make a hanky for a hag,
When Lo! It breezed right out the door
And landed in a heather moor
Where in a hut it came to rest,
In truth, it settled - Heaven be blest! –
Into a glass of watery dew
Where urine, revived, did form a brew,
Which then an old man swiftly drank
And, knew he not, but he’d to thank
The urine, which had saved his life:
This grand elixir cured his strife.
Thus a rag, soaked in yellow,
Helped a lonely wretched fellow.

 

 

 

Idyll

Michael, wistful, warm and horny,
Loved to romp amid the wood,
And so the glen, though cold and thorny,
Beckoned his foolhardihood.
First he’d pick a drooping daisy
Garland for his pagan cock.
Then he’d sip some wine, and crazy,
Dash and frolic on the rock.
Then the grove he gaily greeted,
Laughing as he through it ran,
Laughing for the queer, deep-seated
Passion that he felt for Dan.
Dan the hot one now appears on
Patches of the sharpest thorns;
Together they implant their rears on
These erect and piercing horns.
Lovers for the moment kissing,
Locking arms in hot embrace.
Then – O Baneful  Day! – the hissing
From the rattler’s rocky place.
Snakes know naught of tear-drenched lovers,
Only of a venomed might.
Draw – O Shame! – a veil to cover
Fact and action of the bite!
O! The desperate panting, crying,
As the lovers fast decline!
Michael and poor Dan are dying,
Dying, and for e’er entwined!

 

 

 

Sequence

My cooing dove, pray press your love
Within my rosy, cosy house,
And as you shove, and grant me of…
I beg you, writhe your fuzzy mouse,
My all-engulfing frisky fire to douse.

Yours the sparrow, mine the Pharoah –
Darling, lay your languid head
Upon the Pharoah, sleek and narrow,
Rising as the Nile doth spread…
Likewise by the lusty jungle fed.

O fickle finch, perchance a pinch
Will perk your sullen wing of wonder,
Till by the inch it grow – (a cinch!!) –
With passion plumper and rotunder,
Better to befit my gaping under.

O subtle wren, my ball-point pen
Extends its spheroid head of blue –
Pray quench your yen, my warbling wren,
And sip its damp and dainty dew,
So like your own sweet swirly, pearly poo!

Luscious lumber, cease thy slumber,
Stiffen oak-like once again;
Called from slumber, let that number –
Inchy-baby – grow to ten,
Thy love-wood thus more fit to grace my glen.

Rugged eagle, my poor beagle
Points a snout when cagey claws
Entreat a regal – though illegal –
Entrance through beseeching jaws.
Play Aquila to my Santa Claus!

 

 

 

Our friend, the king, in Capitol park did lay,
And as he lay he drank, till more than drunk.
Thus unrestrained, he urined, all in play,
Then fell he down in stupor, and he stunk.
They found him the next morning in the grass
With sodden robes, and reddened royal ass.

Yes, dead he was, but cause of death not clear
And so of course an autopsy was fit,
In which was found a cause quite odd, my dear.
You see, his bowels bursting were with shit!
About thirty pounds of lukewarm dung in there,
And bruises adorned his rump, now cold and bare.

Who stuffed it there, no honest soul could tell.
One thing was clear: the load was not his poo,
For near the scene of our friend’s private hell
A bellows lay, whose walls were lined with goo,
Which, night before, the coroner theorized,
Had been inserted in the ass so prized.

On close examination it was found
The bellows had a tip a-ringed with blades,
Which, once inside, would whirl round and round
And hash the rectum, as with soil and spades.
And as it spins, this baneful tip shoots forth
A dose of dung, about eight gallons worth.

This clever tool, our comrade’s own device,
Had pierced its own inventor’s anal bore.
No more will we enjoy his youth, so nice,
Which we were wont to in those days of yore.
His mortal days upon this earth are fled!
O Tragedy! Our friend, the King, is dead!

 

 

 

Epic on the Meadow

While all alone in grass and reeds
And yellow buds and prickly seeds
Young Peter sat and watched the sky
And counted birds, till by and by
The sun grew hot, and Peter too
Perspired a bit ‘neath sky of blue.
He did not like the flow of sweat;
He hated heat intense, and yet
The sun was nice, and grass concealed,
So why not strip? – Be as an eel…
And this he did: he threw his shirt
Upon a sun-parched spot of dirt,
Then kicked his shoes off in the air;
They landed ‘pon a boulder bare.
And safely glancing left and right
He then undid his belt so tight
And slid his Levis off his bod,
Thus freeing luscious peas from pod.
And then he lay down on his side,
Which burrs did prick, and up inside
His ass a nagging weed did stick
While curious bugs explored his dick.
Our strapping hero watched all this
With smiles of warmth and deep-breathed bliss,
And then, as noon sun loomed o’erhead
He rubbed his dick; it turned so red,
And then the joy, the heat produced
Great spurts of gooey boyish juice
And mired a bug in seas of slime
Which on Pete’s massive log had climbed.
And then young Peter buried deep
Into his nest, and fell asleep.
The surrounding scene gave not a peep
Till drunken youths in a roving jeep
Chanced to run right over him
And broke his bones to cries so dim
That those who did the tragic deed
Knew it not – no noise to heed!
And so, as light of day grew dim,
Sprawled in grass we still see him,
Crumpled, and deluged by flies
The bare-bunned broken body lies.
Brilliant to the moonlit skies…..
Then came there to this woeful spot
A pimply girl, with but a jot
Of honey she’d collected from
The bee-bugs’ treasured storage drum.
When she, of love for long deprived,
Beheld the boy, she quickly dived
Upon that jewel, to know at least
The salvaged scraps of passion’s feast.
And as she stroked that cold boy’s dick
And as she o’er his white skin licked,
The pot of honey, thick and dark,
Spilled by chance upon the stark
And festering flesh of Peter’s loins.
The oozy blob crept in the groin
And fed the flies who dined on flesh ---
The girl’s mind hashed things old and fresh,
In short she thought ‘twould be a thrill
To “know” this lad upon the hill.
What mattered it if he were dead?
He’d still a cock, with ample head…
O Joy!! At last to be relieved,
At last a rod to be received!
The girl from flaxen garb did strip
And fit her groin where the honey’d dripped,
And then, with hands that oft had milked,
And oft had rubbed her breasts of silk,
She grabbed his organ, cold and white,
And tried, and tried, with all her might,
To shove it in her waiting room –
But Pity! This poor plan was doomed,
For Peter’s cock was lately limp
And could not penetrate the blimp.
So all she did till morning broke
Was stroke, and kiss, caress, and stroke
And tender suck this squishy eel –
She gave the lad a thorough feel,
And then, as sun again was nigh
She kissed his prick a last good-bye
And left him to the ants and ticks
Who roamed his slab in swarms so thick
That by the next night’s waning moon
Much less than what had been at noon
Reclined in stinking, sodden grass;
Indeed, they’d skinned his once-full ass
And shredded that immaculate face,
With pinkish meat to take its place.
And now and then a rat would gnaw
Or some too-taloned hawk would claw.
Poor Peter ended thus his day,
But lives again in this sad lay.

 

 

 

Counterculture

The Teacher on the mount then spoke of Love
With eloquence ne’er seen, and Wisdom new;
A wondrous, radiant way of Being shone through,
As – Lo! – the Sun shook free of clouds above!
And as the multitude ensprawled the grass,
The Sage disrobed, and cried out “Kiss my ass!”

You see, my pretties, this fair scene took place
Amid the old asylum elms,*  a space
Of shirtless flowered youth, who yearn to know
The Age’s high, sweet, educative flow.
Decaying forms of old thus peel away,
Revealing Truth of purer, freer day.








*A two-story brick building with multiple verandas and impressive pillars. It faces a superb lawn on which rows of elm trees descend to a small dock on the river, eleven miles north of  C… the state capitol. The asylum, built in 1869 during the grand administration of Gov. Thornton Goodrich, was exactly 100 years old at the time the noted guru delivered his sermon – a fact which was taken as a special sign by many. By the late 1970s the elms were all gone, victims of  Dutch Elm disease.