The virtue of your pristine skin
Impaled upon my poisoned pen
Will swell my cheek with stifled mirth
I cast your values down to earth!
Your prudish howls of outrage flee
Before my sabled sense of glee
For sacred good I have no time
I'm busy with my nasty rhymes
Of naughty deeds my verse regales
For what's a wag without a tale?
I want to make small children cry
And the hope of saints to ebb and die
My insult's now almost complete
Your just dessert, a raspberry treat!
To those who whine that I disgrace
I present my arse for your embrace!
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