A Wench ther was, a homely dame forsoothe,
Ful graye of haar, and longge in the toothe.
Neer twenty stone of heft she was, and yette
A parfait hottye on the Internette.
For on hir syte appeered a yongge slutte
With ample boosom, firm, yrounded butte,
And gammes that war shapely, slim and longge,
In al, a parfait hottye in a thongge.
So wolde she tempten men that war alone
To callen hir ech nyghte by telephone
And speken of erotic fantasye,
Of which they hadde the first three mynutes free.
But whan that little tyme was at an ende,
Three ninety-nine a mynute wolde they spende.
And she, with tendre voice like fynest silke,
Wolde string them on, their creditte carddes to milke.
And so she made hir custommeres to wanke
And snikkered al the way unto the banke.
Copyright: Scott Emmons
Web Site: http://www.wordchowder.com