Poets

On one permitted breath (proved by chanting kabbadi) he runs inside from the line for an arc of Walsall's defenders -

Ah the Raj! Our mother-incarnate Victoria Imperatrix rules the sceptred sphere - she oversees legions of maiden ‘fishing fleets' breaking the waves for the love of a ‘heaven-born' Etonian! Smoke from cheroots, fetes on lawns, dances by moonlight at Alice in Wonderland - no the Viceroy - the Viceroy's ball! Lock, stock and bobbing along on palanquins to gothic verandahs where dawn Himalayas through Poobong-mist, the twelve-bore or swagger stick topi-and-khaki bobbery shikar, Tally ho! for the boars in a dead-leaf hush and by Amritsar what a bang!bang! bagging the flamiest tiger! Jackals, panthers, leopards, blackbucks and swanny bustards, pig-sticking, Kipling, Tatler, Tollygunge, High Jinks and howdahs for mansion whacking banks, and the basso profundo of evensong, frog song, poppy-pods, housey-housey and hammocks under the Milky Way . . . Tromping home trumps - here come the cummerbund sahibs tipsy with stiff upper lips for burra pegs of brandy pawnee, pink gin and the Jaldi punkawallaaahhhh! on six-meal days with tiffin and peacocks and humps and tongue and the croquet and polo and snooker at Ooty and yaboos, and sabre- curved mustachios twirling for octoroons panting in gunna-green fields, and ayahs akimbo and breathless zenanas behind bazaars where the nautch and the sun never sets when mango's the bride-bed of lingam-light, in a jolly good land overflowing with silk and spice and all the gems of the earth! Er darling, it's not quiiite the koh-i-noor but would you . . . (on a train that's steaming and hooting on time through a tunnel) Ooo darling a diamond! You make me feel so alive.

How oft do mates bang on at length about the length they're hung and grab their crotch to slash the air then chuck an arm at will around a chum while necking Stella till they're lashed. To tell the truth, I'm really not well hung, and thus I hide from mates my prince's state, this conk is king of my poor frame, no trunks would lunchbox find to bank a lady's gaze. And yet I hope the guys won't feel too down when I recount my lover's hardly wimpish - watch her stiffen over corrrrrs! from louts who check her out too long (for she's that fit!). In bed, most nights she'll sigh: O love, I love the worldly way you work your subtle touch.