She had lovemaking
Down to a fine art;
Knew the nuances

Of kissing, or so
Uncle said and he
Should have known

As he had what you
Would later say was
An encylopaediatic

Knowledge of women,
Sufficient to put old
Casanova to shame.

Never treat women
The same, Uncle said,
They’re like precious

Diamonds, each has
Their own shiny bits,
Their little neat crevices,

Their own fine beauty.
Auntie knew nothing
Of this; she had the

Beauty of a dogfish,
Uncle often whispered,
Holding back a laugh.

The dame in question
Sure had you hooked
On her beauty like a fine

Art. You would dream of
Her most nights, have
Imaginary love feasts,

A fantasy laying of the
Head between breasts,
Pretend holding of hands

Before dipping in the deep
Gulf of her thighs. Henry,
Uncle’d say, women are

The high point of God’s
Creation, His claim to fame,
His special one off artwork.

The dame invaded your
Dreams and flooded your
Senses and sucked your

Juices; she had each aspect
Of your being pegged to her
Every move and shake of

Head and wiggle of ass.
Henry, Uncle’d say, women
Are the reason for being,

The whole point of getting
Up in the morning and going
To bed at night, they are the

Reason popes or priests don’t
Marry, they are the pinnacle
Of humanity, the reason why

Your auntie runs them down.
Yes, she had lovemaking down
To a fine art, right down to

Her red painted toenails, right
Up to her dark brown hair and
You’d have made love to her

In your dreams each night in
Front of auntie’s ice-cold stare.


Terry Collett

Horsham, United Kingdom

  • Artist
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