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Ode to Smidley
‘Twas a morrowless night on yonder Didcot-field lain,
whence appeared thruft and twiften a maiden a-came,
wathed hair black as raven-cruft and eyes widdened
and bright,
she a-skipped and a-skopped under glistening
moonlight.
As I entrophed ‘pon this view, my heart grew a-flut,
and I beseeched to the vision, “lady,” I asked, “ist
thou a cheap slut?”
And whence those eyes dist lock upon mine, like a
leech,
she replied, with a poutened grin, “No, I am a
pricktease.”
I gazed all a gibble, with dribble and stam,
at her peachy-like ass and heaving, pert yam,
She danced forth to me, wind trussling her hair,
though my mind fought mine eyes betrayal not to
simply stare,
My loins grew a-tingle and I hastened my breath,
as I leered towards young virgins sweet breast,
mine will sapped and waning, I ventured a squeeze,
“You can look, but not touch,” she warned, “Cos I’m
a pricktease.”
“Oh gods, vile and true!” I yelled to the unknown,
“Why sendeth me yonder lady who giveth me no chance
to bone,
Dost thou delight to hate me and torturous games
thou dost teach,
for painful enticement thou enticed with this
treacherous pricktease!”
But my pleas left unfended through no fend wast
endured,
and aghast before mine eyes mine beauty adjourned,
and deserted myself, barren in Didcot-field to
beseech,
for the young lady Smidley, that dirty pricktease.
Deadlamb, 2006
The events depicted in this poem are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental – so there’s no need to be offended Smid 
