Sylvie

 

Sylvie was a comely wench. Fifty, if a day

Oh yes, her charms were obvious, and always on display

Dressed to kill, in leather and lace

A shapely body, bonny face

Her hunting ground The Royal Oak

She’d always find a younger bloke

A teacher with a lack of scruples

Never short of willing pupils

Life was good, the sex was hot

She was happy with her lot

 

One evening at the Royal Oak

She went outside to have a smoke

As she sparked her glowing cinder

She paused just by an open window*              (*winder)

And in the pub just out of view

Two lads, bragged of conquests new

So Sylvie thought she might as well

Listen to the “kiss and tell”

The girl in question sounded nice

As both lads tried her, once or twice

But how they laughed, and mocked the lass

Who brayed and whinnied like an ass

They found it hard, to just ignore

The girl who climaxed with ……. Eeyore

So Sylvie listened in, because

She wondered who the donkey was

Can you imagine Sylvie’s shame

When one lad mentioned her, by name

 

 

She never knew she made that noise

When entertaining younger boys

Of course, she knew, she could get giddy

But t’ Eeyore, snicker, bray and whinny

 

She vowed to be silent, from that day

And not to risk another bray

A chastity vow, may have been more apt

But no, she’d be silent, and adapt

Communications, so sublime

With, the use of props and mime

 

She decided to give the Oak a miss

And went to t’ Feathers, where she met Chris

A body builder, in his peak

Muscle bound, great physique

Boy, he made a comely sight

Just how she liked ‘em, not too bright

 

 

So, back at Sylvie’s little flat

Mixed among the junk and tat

She set her props up, all around

As she’d vowed not to make a sound

 

She closed the door, and he stood there

She showed him a teddy, and he stripped (bear)

So impressed by what she saw

She picked a model up off the floor

An Iraqi missile made of wood

It was just her way of saying …. *Scud       (*’sgood)

He moved beside her. Manners lacking

She smashed an egg, and he got cracking

 

Atop the drawers, on a cloth of baize

She’d laid three coins, from the olden days

A penny, a sixpence, and a shilling

Chris, went along with it, more than willing

She tapped them in sequence, slowly and steady

And that set the tempo, Chris was ready

Penny …. Tanner …. Bob.  Penny ….Tanner ….Bob

A steady tempo, just the job

She’d used the coins to set the speed

She didn’t want to rush the deed

 

Then after a while of slow paced tupping  

She decided the tempo needed upping

She put another penny with ‘um

A different sum, a different rhythm

And this in turn did up the rate

And Chris went at it…… one-an’-eight

 

One-an’-eight. One-an’-eight. A jolly pace

The marathon, now a sprinters race

With this new rhythm in his head

He thrashed about upon the bed

He much preferred the faster rate

And so ploughed on. One-an’-eight, one-an’-eight

 

As Chris continued to bang and to bop

Sylvie searched around, for another prop

She fumbled about, and in both hands

She came out with a couple of cans

Two empty bean tins from her stash

And she banged them together with a mighty clash

Clatter and clash, she banged those tins

She didn’t half make a bloody din

Chris thought, it’s her way of saying I’m great

And so he ploughed on, one-an’-eight, one-an’-eight

 

She continued to clatter and clash with those cans

And Chris, bless him, not being the brightest of mans

Thought, she’s doing it still. That’s a bit queer

Maybe, she’s trying to say summet here

Of course she had two cans, one in each hand

And Chris thought, that’s Can-Can. Now I understand

I know of this Can-Can, that jiggy old dance

I’ve seen them perform it, on a day trip to France

But why do it now, that doesn’t translate

So still he ploughed on, one-an’-eight, one-an’-eight

 

 

Crash bang. Crash bang. She rattled those tins

The noise has horrendous, a proper old din

She clashed with the cans, which were once full of beans

And Chris wracked his brain to work out what it means

Two cans, he thought, like a toucan the bird

If that is the meaning, it’s more than absurd

But a toucan’s a bird with a bright coloured beak

And he thought how own snitch came in for critique

For Chris had a conk that’s exceptionally long

So he thought that’s the point. Of course he was wrong

Miffed and insulted at the affront to his snout

He still carried on, to see the job out

It was turning out to be a funny old date

But still he ploughed on. One-an’-eight, one-an’-eight

 

Bang clash went the tins, Sylvie’d had enough now

She’d tried to silent, tried keeping the vow

But try as she might, there was no getting through

And sometimes there’s only plain speaking will do

So she cancelled her vow cos enough is enough

And she shouted the words “TIN TIN * you soft chuff”               *it i'nt in