Eager to get off,
He'd drop the rubber pants.
His clients loved to see his prize,
And were usually full of praise.
He would always perform well
And lovers gave him one hundred per cent.
The seasons passed quite satisfied,
But eventually his beautiful black hair had turned to grey.
Lost and confused, he looked for other pastimes,
But not even gardening could replace his love of rubber pants.
Comments
Skunk | February 20, 2009 - 20:36
A tragic and touching poem. Loud and swarthy yet filled with tenderness and oysters. I'd wash my hair in it if I could reach the taps. I don't care what the others say, I liked it.
hilary west | February 20, 2009 - 20:38
Not everybody's cup of tea !
chuck | February 20, 2009 - 22:38
Attracted by the rubber pants,
I sought the boudoir to enhance,
With elastic elegance.
I'd swap them for a sexy kilt,
If it wasn't for my fear of ants.
(a comment in progress)
FTSE100 | February 20, 2009 - 23:20
What, you mean there's going to be more, chuck?
chuck | February 20, 2009 - 23:25
No but I reserve the right to make minor alterations to the existing comment.
FTSE100 | February 20, 2009 - 23:28
Sorry, that's not permitted. You know the rules.
chuck | February 20, 2009 - 23:48
I think in the case of rubber pants poetry the rules can be stretched.
Stefano | February 21, 2009 - 10:46
I saw it as 'rubber plants' on the first reading. I have to say it makes more sense and is 98% funnier when they are rubber pants!
hilary west | February 21, 2009 - 16:28
Loved the rhymin' reply chuck, almost as much as I love the proverbial.
Belle Green | February 22, 2009 - 01:18
This poem made me smile. I liked the reminder that a man's hair will also eventually turn from beautiful black to grey.
The last line I would probably rewrite it as:
But not even gardening could replace his love of rubber pants.
I would cut out the repetition of his.
I enjoyed the read.
hilary west | February 22, 2009 - 01:45
I've done so Belle, Thanks.