Make No Pompomish Bones About It

Between a Gourd and her Skeleton

In the balmy evening air they sat

he, on the bones of his arse

she in her tumescent russet glory

Lots of whispering about that

their pageant an effervescent farce

(Everyone believes his own story)

It is an indisputable fact

that gossip gives buzz to passing cars

and not everything is only hunky-dory

But between her (the gourd) and her cat

the black sky, the moon and the stars

truth was kind of compulsory

You see, she was not just fat

with alien seed from Mars

and he was not just sorry

Only three days left