Here Be Not Dragons

 Here Be Not Dragons

Imagine dragons? No, I’d sooner not

shag shopworn knights composed of rot,

born to those with wits of rock,

hidden behind some well-shooked locks.

I spy that ever so shy face wielding

her adamantine swords and shielding

just a look at some little bit of titty.

 

Softly, not so softly, he’s peeking out

from behind a gay geriatric helmet,

penning flapdoodle in black crush velvet,

shaking his shy, tiny peekaboo winky

then wiping it upon britches dripping

with warriors that all sneeze doodle-do

and cock legs for a crafty bit of titty.

 

Your dreary game of knock-kneed throne,

all your Googling goblins home alone

clutching Gollums and stolen trolls who rob

squeezed jobbies that are just the job.

Find some ancient cursed enchanted ring,

snores through all the evil it could bring,

and cops for a bit of B cup titty.

 

Here’s our Mr or Mrs Turvey Drop

of 32 Swizzle Street with flat caps of cloth

and ears to boot, owning lifted notions

of twisted witches drinking turgid potions,

wraiths wandering other writer’s pages,

had lost their bearings in the Middle Ages,

but, behold. Just another bit of titty.