Roses are red,
Golf is exciting enough,
I really enjoy,
some fun in the rough.
As I start to drive off,
I wiggle my butt,
could you be thinking
of taking a putt?
As for getting
"into a groove",
I might oblige you,
if you make the right move.
The ball is hit cleanly,
straight down the fairway,
let's go into the bushes,
so you can have your way.
As I kneel down before you,
hoping my back won't ache,
I wonder how many,
strokes you will take.
Roses are red,
my thanks to RB,
"Do it standing instead",
not really for me.
I prefer a large bed,
or a soft fluffy rug,
where we could snuggle,
all nice and snug.
In front of a fire,
the heat warming your butt.
Does that make me sound,
like some kind of slut?
With my legs open wide,
you make randy remarks
just take care and watch out,
for any stray sparks.
And what of the children awaiting his visit?
He must be careful on what to exhibit.
When emptying his sack,
Wonder who will be below, and will they enjoy me?
Roses are red,
my stockings are black,
of libidinous interest,
there's never a lack.
Worn with suspenders,
or a garter I think,
the comments received,
can make my cheeks turn pink.
Jack was quite taken with Jill
But Jill was off fucking Bill
As she rode him hard
in the peace of his yard,
Roses are red,
what can I do?
I hate seeing this thread,
on page number two.
The first week I joined,
I discovered the thread,
the most fun I've had, (almost)
outside the bed.
Flirting with Ginger,
Lynn and RB,
and enjoying others,
flirting with me.
The first place I check,
when logging in to the group,
then having a ball,
getting into the loop.
Young Jane was remarkably hairy
RB found her fascinatingly scary
He was horny and bold,
and not really old,
As she hung laundry out on the line,
she drank from a tall glass of wine,
Roses are red,
I have to admit,
to stretching the truth,
just a little bit.
It seems that my claim,
to a virginal mien,
is not being believed,
but that is just fine.
I guess that my previous,
rhymes gave me away.
So "Marie the horny"
is how I will stay.
Roses are red,
some rhymes make me blush,
I read them with pleasure,
then get a hot flush.
I think I'm too innocent,
Too pure and naive,
(and someone is laughing,
or so I perceive.)
A cute little lady from Philly
Laughed when she first saw a willie
How peculiar the size
Even after the rise
but doesn't it look rather silly?
A cute little lady from Philly
Laughed when she first saw a willie
Of what use is that she said with a smile
And pondered that thought for awhile
then decided it looked rather silly?
The problem with multiple rhymes
why is a bra never comfortable?
That winsome young coed from Yale
Thought giving head meant only to exhale
Until a young Harvard stud,
This same lady boarded a train
A plain grain train in the rain
In search of some fun
But she found no one,
forced celibacy is always a strain.
Now sex on a plane is so hard,
Roses are red,
it's good to be back,
after spending so long,
flat on my back.
Not I must add,
for nice sexy fun,
but for Chemo and treatment,
a battle I won.
Men have their place,
as all we girls know.
With women on top,
and men down below.
And that last line,
will be misunderstood,
by our horny guys,
as I thought it would.
With visions of girls,
astride their erection,
Some of our men
would regard that as perfection.
Roses are red,
Ashley don't stress,
my rhymes are quite often,
too dull, I confess.
The posts are just done,
to announce I'm still here,
I am easy to forget,
too quiet, I fear.
The point of the thread,
as far as I know,
is just to have fun,
so please stay, don't go.
In Paris, the girls are so chic
They don't even pretend to be meek,
they flaunt all their bits,
Roses are red,
We all know who,
never lift the seat
when they go to the loo.
The result is the same,
every time,
splashes and mess,
it should be a crime.
If I can just add,
a word to the wise?
Gentlemen, don't
overestimate your size.
The tarts on the docks of Marseilles,
have many men every day,
Roses are red,
RB surely frowns,
sex in an elevator,
has its ups and downs.
Not least is the smell
of a (polite) Bottom burp,
and its always so obvious,
who is the perp.
The sun shone down upon her hair,
her dress was short as she could dare,
A lass with small nipples so pink
Drew them bigger and darker with ink
Resembling ripe cherries
Instead of cranberries,
it certainly made the guys think.
The Lush guys are true gentlemen,
Roses are red,
re R.B.s sock,
I notice the girls,
are here to mock.
I don't know if the sock
is to hide a certain lack,
just be grateful it is,
down the front, not the back.
The ladies of certain persuasion
Were dressed for a sensual occasion
Sans knickers and shame
they were up for the game
It's a fact that the girls here in Lush,
The hirsute young lass from Spokane
Was not in the mood for a man,
Her tastes lay elsewhere,
and not in her hair
Roses are red,
Lynn loves to have fun,
and that's what we're here for,
when all's said and done.
Milton and Shakespeare,
are all fine and dandy,
but give me the girls here,
who can sure make me randy.
The rhymes may be shaky,
the rhythm might stray,
but what we come here for,
is surely to play.
The hirsute young lass from Spokane
Was not in the mood for a man,
Her tastes lay elsewhere,
Roses are red,
this thread is the best,
although I have fun,
trying the rest.
No need to be Shakespeare,
or a genius with rhyme,
just post stuff at random,
and have a great time.