Young GirlSubmitted by Bestmate2 at 2019-03-08 18:14:15 EST
Rating: -0.34 on 6 ratings (16 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
OK. I am about to commit Uber suicide, but Theakstone’s Old Peculiar has loosened my tongue. I am reckless to the point of scriptural oblivion.
I will relate my chat up line, whispered into the ears of my contemporaries in dear old Liverpool, down by the docks, when my religion was Catholic and my occupation hard knocks. At stealing from lorries, I was adept, ‘twas under old newspapers that I slept.
Anyway here it is. Always whispering it and nestling in luxurious scented locks. When, with a straight face, and preparing the ground, I explained that as a man, I struggled to understand what it feels like with your first!
This was the poem I wrote to win the favours of the fair maids who frequented the Pubs in merry old Lime Street, Liverpool in 19xx.
“Young girl thy love doth wilt, at mentions of your lover’s name.
The one who did bring your release, who doused in you your virgin flame.
When a song bird sing’s it’s sad lament, your mind must wander to hours spent, with him your love.
In retribute you count the cost, you feel yourself around you him.
You feel yourself, as having lost.
The final verse to love’s own hymn.”
Well there you have it, you discerner’s of each and every noble cause. My sacred chat up line.
In case any of you give a flying fuck, I can report that success, as in all things, is relative. Xx