With Somin Not Chez Lily - Poem by gershon hepner
She didn’t do it with Osmin
in the flat of Knickers Nettie.
She thought it would have been a sin,
and didn’t know he wasn’t petty
where some men are, and it counts most
for gals who’re looking to get laid.
She loved me so much, wouldn’t boast
about me, being far too staid,
and I was all she wanted then,
and she is wanting even now,
forswearing from all other men
their love. She still will not allow
an Osmin, or a Moish or Yankie,
to have her when I’m not around;
they all must spill into a hanky
their seed, or spill it on the ground,
as she, when living with Aunt Lily
allowed me, lying on the carpet,
to drown her, femme-sauce on fusilli,
or saber tiger in a tarpit,
Of course the house used to belong,
appropriately, to Uncle Dick:
I was her man and did her wrong,
a happy, horny, Hendon hick.
Poor Onans, I don’t pity them,
because I love her far too much,
and even jealously condemn
alternatives, like with a butch
of femme. She doesn’t go for either,
and considers me quite daft
to ask her if she’ll still take neither
when I’m away from her in Taft.
Inspired by Linda’s story of superfeminine restraint when, as while teaching at Holland Park School, she lived in an apartment with a girl she called Knickers Nettie and refused to allow a Gambian called Osmin to sleep with her.
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