A Lunar Cycle is NOT a Moon Bike

I'm a man full red-blooded, my face it is studded, and I've tats from my face to my arse,
And I spied a punk beauty, a spiky-haired cutie, in clothing incredibly sparse.
I said, My name's Michael.  She said, I'm starting my cycle, keep away unless you want to get burned,
By premenstrual tension, without intervention.  I think my advances were spurned.

I said, I don't want a medal and I'm not trying to pedal, some sleazy one-liner for sex,
Pray tell of you hobbies, your third cousin Bobbies, or your fondness for chilli Tex-Mex.
She looked at me strangely, not a little derangedly, and said, holy fuck, are you real?
I'm a woman in purdah, who'd gladly do murder, without uttering a gasp or a squeal.

So, you'd like a kill party, I said offering a Smartie, worry not, tomorrow's a new day,
I've a squat round the corner where I'll buy you a donner, and we can talk till your blues go away.
Do have chocolate wheaties, she asked, gobbling my sweeties.  I nodded and she came to a decision,
Said, I'll go to you den, your grim but 'n' ben, until my mood has a major revision.

But she said to me, Michael, beware of my cycle, it's going to come monthly to greet you,
I answered, my pet, don't you worry or fret, for I'm a werewolf and I'm going to eat you.

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