bad poetry – Contemplating the divine

Come along, darling

Don’t dawdle.

Oooh… 50% of the way there! That’s closer than I’ve ever got.

It’s not as high-margin a business as you might expect, but fortunately some of her labour costs are very low indeed. Speaking of which, have you negotiated your salary yet? No? OK.

From the look of the sea, they’ve got ages… which is just as well, because Julie can be quite slow to get aroused, unless she can use her cattle prod.

Every poet should have a muse. This lucky lad has two.

And let’s not have any old-fashioned patriarchal nonsense about ‘earning’ it, OK? It’s not your salary, not now you’re married.

You might find it hard to imagine you’ll forget you’re wearing something as heavy and bulky as that, but believe me: once the nipple clamps go on and the scrotal ring is properly anchored to your ankle chain, you’ll hardly notice it.

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling

With grovelling apologies to anyone with even the slightest taste, it’s a special OWK poetry day! You see, I – no, come back! Really, it’s not that bad, and anyway at least there are pictures of –

Hello?

Anyone still here?

Oh well, just you and me, then. OWK poetry, anyway, all based on the kind of traditional British canon I learnt (but perhaps suprisingly given my interests did not actually have beaten into me) at school. More difficult than it looks, even done this badly, especially as there is essentially no one-word rhyme in English for ‘kingdom’, or for that matter ‘Owk’.

Just in case any of you are interested, puzzled or just entirely short of better things to do sitting there, as you are, in front of a computer with your trousers down around your ankles, the actual poems these are mangled from are, in order:

How do I love thee?
Jabberwocky
The Tyger
The Waste Land
Elegy written in a country churchyard
To his coy Mistress

Soothing lullabies

Some nursery rhymes to help you relax and go to sleep. Everything will be fine.

Oh, you didn’t realise that I wrote poetry?

Oh no, it isn’t

(Oh yes – it is!).

Not – you’ll be relieved to hear – the full British panto experience rendered in femdom. I only go t~~o see the principal boy strutting around in tights~~ for the topical humour anyway. But there’s usually a fairy speaking in bad rhyming couplets and this is what we have.

I’m Tinkerbell, by magic bound

To grant three wishes, when I’m found

So wish away, don’t take your time

And I’ll reply, in magic rhyme!

You wish for wealth beyond compare?

Check on your app – the money’s there!

Twelve zeroes end your balance sum

Be sure to spend it wisely, chum!

Your second wish – more altruistic?

That’s my hope, if unrealistic.

The choice is yours, good human, make a

Wish for peace, don’t be a ‘taker’!

You want a bigger cock – that’s all?

Not peace on earth, nor food for all?

All right, I’ll grant what you’re proposing

One large penis: quite imposing.

Now your third wish, say it quickly

Tinkerbell is feeling sickly

Something selfish, I don’t doubt it

State your wish – and quick about it!

A woman sexy, always young?

Who’ll love and worship with her – eugh! – tongue?

Fear not, my magic’s pretty good!

A girl who’ll treat you as she should!

A woman conjured from afar

Who’ll love you just for what you are!

A selfish beast, a greedy fool

With cash galore and massive tool.

Now who could love a pig like that?

Of course! A findomme! Savage brat

She’ll drain your savings, keep you frantic

Lock away that cock gigantic!

Yes: a findomme, brutal, bitchy

Now my magic’s getting witchy!

Casting spells for evil wishers

Here’s your findomme – blonde and vicious!

Princess Spoilt – I’m Tinkerbell.

I brought you here and wish you well.

This human’s yours; do as you please

But make him suffer – on his knees.

He’s rich and well-endowed, I’d say

So what a shame I made you gay!

But when you’re bored with mere temptation

Feel free to move on to –

Hmm. What rhymes with temptation? I’m usually so good with rhymes. Well, my dear Princess Spoilt, I’ll leave you to fill in that last one, OK?

And so I’ll say goodbye, Princess

Although your lips, I’ll here confess

Are tempting, full and ruby red…

Oh fuck it, let’s just go to bed.

All through the house

Fettered access

The control collar was going on sooner or later, anyway. Married life will all be done ‘the hard way’ so why not the wedding ceremony too?

Don’t worry, you’re not taking advantage of the situation. You have permission to pay her double, too.

Ooh – you’ll be the last one! I guess that makes you special. And they’ll probably try to make you last, too.

She’ll be OK. Everyone’s agreed there aren’t enough women in high-profile STEM jobs, nor enough men in menial and degrading positions.

Secure relationships

Of course, as Governess Harding herself likes to emphasise (and she really can be remarkably emphatic), the support she provides for married couples can’t replace the work the couples themselves need to do, to put her principles into practice in their day to day lives. But she can provide a solid foundation of terror, on which a lasting relationship can be built.

Many teenage boys just think they can masturbate as often as they like and it doesn’t matter – but really, they’re just storing up problems for themselves, if they ever get into a properly-managed romantic relationship.

If he finds it any consolation, the things they will be doing to him will indeed bring sexual pleasure to both of them at the same time.

The number’s
important, because obviously the ‘U’ will change to a ‘C’ at some point
and any staff member can access the records and alter the ‘R’ to an ‘E’
should she feel it appropriate to do so.

I use names, though, including the awesome and glorious name Eleise de Lacy.* It’s an honour to do so.

Original here. I’ve heard that Doktor Soos is considered politically incorrect these days. I hope this goes some way to redressing the balance. This too.

* Even though I am not quite sure how to pronounce it. Eleeza or El-eye-ssa?

And the Government shall be upon her shoulders

Sir Reginald Horner

Knelt in the corner

Worried about his career.

He feared he’d be late

For the Budget debate

But his Nanny was keeping him here.

In the House, with disdain

He’d rise up, to explain

That an increase in Health Service pay

While undoubtedly right,

Was not on, in the light

Of the fiscal position today.

Nanny Strict, with her feet up

Read, over her tea cup

Her paper: the politics page.

She was thinking of days

Lost in memory’s haze

As a staff-nurse, on minimum wage.

So she picked up her tawse

To prepare for a course

In arithmetic: “Stretch out your arm!”

“Take a nurse’s base pay (thwack!)

Then take taxes away (thwack!)

And you’re left with a hot stinging palm!”

“Here’s another quick sum

Take one fat fleshy bum

Add twelve strokes from a long rattan cane

Then if feeling contrition

You can check your addition

And add up the budget again.”

All the MPs were stunned

By Sir Reggie’s new fund

To pay nurses twice what they now earn.

Then he winced as he sat

And they wondered at that

What had led to this sudden U-turn?

“I just felt nurses’ pain”

He explained, in the rain

Interviewed, by the TV and press.

“This award, you might call

It… a ‘tribute’, that’s all

I could not sit at ease giving less!”

The rest is just history:

Whatever the mystery

That changed his decision back then.

All the experts agree

That this speech was the key

To his new house in Downing St: ten.

As PM he has access

To experts on taxes,

Defence, Home and Foreign Affairs.

But he likes to defer

For the last word, to… ‘her’:

To his ‘Special Adviser’ upstairs.

Now every decision’s

Thrashed out with precision:

The smack of firm government’s here.

Yet bad luck for the Right

(Who should cherish the sight):

It’s the Nanny State that they so fear.

Furious feminine

It’s not that ironic. He strongly disapproved of it while it was being done to him, too – more so than ever, if anything.

“We” did, although only only one of us did most of the actual talking, as I recall it.

You might want to refer her to your own ‘FAM’ – that’s ‘Frantic Appeals for Mercy’

The simply divine Mistress Heather. I for one would love to kiss the air above that foot tattoo, and even closer if allowed.

Thank goodness she realised you needed to be locked in chastity too. How awful it would be to be locked in a prison cell for months without any ability to suffer the erotic frisson of enforced chastity at the same time.