His name was Sam, a warehouse man.

Fat and ugly comes to mind.

With one tooth each side and little hair,

he chased what he could find.

He pursued the girls at every bar

but could never summarize

why his affairs were short in length.

Perhaps it was his size.

 

He met a damsel of the night

and madly fell for her.

Though truth to tell, I do not know

how she could stand the cur.

She took him home, a business deal,

how much he did not tell.

To sell, then keep what you have sold,

does have a quaint appeal.

 

In flagrant throes of love they thrashed.

The mounted mount did thrill.

When all at once she shouted out,

my pill, the pill, my pill

Too late, too late, Sam wheezed at her.

We haven’t got the time.

With rolling eyes he set his spurs,

surrendering to the sublime.

 

She wailed and arched and thrashed about,

with mounting thrill in time.

Still crying for the pill, my pill.

Oh what a time to whine.

When he was spent, his eyes he bent,

to gaze in love at her.

But she was still and seemed quite ill

she didn’t even stir.

 

When she awoke, to her he spoke.

Oh what a one night stand.

But what was that about a pill,

I just don’t understand?

She laughed, she cried and then she sighed,

you are a fat nit whit.

It wasn’t you my passions drew.

‘Twas an Epileptic fit!

 

 

David Garlick, England, 1986

A truestory, as heard in a construction camp.