The Problem With Knickers
I once courted a comely girl named Marie.
Stuttering hearts in the infancy of first love.
She had certain wiggle when she walked:
every stomping young man’s dream.
And then one day in October,
we were round her house,
plying secret trysts
and my loins were on fire.
I thought my libido was about to burst.
And then, suddenly, her Mum entered the room.
A formidable woman of mountainous proportions.
I was the epitome of a nice young gentleman.
But then it began to turn rather nasty.
Marie and her Mum were arguing.
I didn’t just know what to do.
Marie’s Mum then made a dramatic gesture
and her knickers fell down around her ankles.
Huge, voluminous, parachute-sized red bloomers.
There was total and utter silence in the room.
All of a sudden, Marie’s Mum shrieked,
stepped out of her fallen knickers
and ran from the room
at an amazing speed.
And then Marie shrieked,
quickly gathered up her Mum’s knickers
and ran from the room at the same amazing speed.
I was transfixed, staggered, not knowing what to do.
Marie soon returned, sheepish and embarrassed,
and told me that her Mum said I had to leave.
Her Mum never let me see Marie again.
I thought my life was ended,
but then I met Julie’s Mum,
who was petite,
a very friendly lady.
And Julie’s Mum’s knickers
were never any sort of problem,
but that’s another story for another day.