Wortley Clutterbuck

Poetry

 

Getting Old

 

When play stops, old age begins.

— Byron.

 

It’s really fun, this getting old —

a lot more fun than I’ve been told;

it’s been described as life’s great bane,

this wrinkled skin with the back pain;

they say you huff and puff to breathe

and youngsters hope that soon you’ll leave.

I find it true that I’ve gone bald

and dates and facts I’ve misrecalled;

I won’t deny that I’ve grown fat

and like to stay put when I’m sat;

but ‘tho it might come off profane,

I haven’t come here to complain.

 

It’s really fun, these later years —

a lot more fun than it appears;

most people expect less of you

so there’s less crap one has to do;

you’re less important than before

so most tenues you can ignore;

nobody cares what you might think

so there’s more time to sleep and drink;

and who would notice what you wear

so dishabille if you’d so dare;

and ‘tho it seems I might protest,

it’s great to care not how I’m dressed.

 

Now, being young, I will admit,

a lot of things weren’t a good fit;

I worked real hard for a paycheck

performing labor quite low-tech;

and amorous experience,

I had not much there to evince.

My elders told me how to vote

and what ideas to promote;

my fam’ly put the pressure on

to join the highest echelon;

they said life’s best in the stampede

and have a lot of mouths to feed.

 

It’s really fun, this getting old —

I tried it once and I was sold;

‘cause I have got a bank account

and it is a goodly amount;

I’m riding in a sedan-chair

which makes life pretty debonair;

the chair I’m sporting is top-shelf,

thanks to that gentleman, myself;

I used to be a young man, poor,

but now I have a lady lure;

it’s said libido shrinks a lot

but my pintle’s still running hot.

 

Life sure is fun, as an old coot —

I’m shedding off my old repute;

‘cause being young was always broke

but now I’m florid and baroque;

and if relations, when bereaved,

think they’ll inherit, they’ll be peeved;

for I have plans to spend it all

and go out on a booty call;

‘cause in the dark, all cats are gray

and, at my age, they’re all OK;

the older that I get among

them, how they all start to look young.

 

 

 

Cunnilingus

​

The learn’d, the wise, the grave, the gay 

in its embraces take delight;

‘tho hid, they adore it in the day

and often kneel to it at night.

— Edward Ward, The Dutch Riddle, circa 1700.

 

I’m going to speak to all the gents

who might lack some experience;

but this advice is also good

for most dames, in all likelihood.

 

Cunnilingus is the best  

so give that phallic push a rest;

the old cliché of chaps well-hung

falls short compared to a long tongue.

 

You’ll want an organ with good taste

when traveling below the waist;

in faith, no lady wants a poke

since licking’s better to invoke.

 

Forsooth, this proves more popular

if you would really happy her;

for, troth, the pleasure palace likes

some soft caresses, not crass strikes.

 

The nicer be, the more she craves,

so down ye go, ye saucy knaves;

’tis fun to osculate the clit —

so succulent, so exquisite.

 

First up, ye buss her underwear —

do not advance without moisture;

and if she bids ye fair exhorts,

continue, and untruss her shorts.

 

Behold that lovely pubis hair

which has a scent beyond compare;

the view from here is true divine —

so worship well her holy shrine.

 

Now, bring thy face into her quim

and say you love her synonym;

she wants to know ye venerate

her womanliness incarnate.

 

If she assents, acquaint the lips

of your mouth with those in her hips;

then, give a slight vibrato from

your tongue to the place where she’ll come.

 

Breathe through your nose as you give head

and cosset that posh oyster bed;

go slow and subtle, note her speed —

she wants a good time, not thy seed.

 

Her breathing rises to and fro

with undulations down below;

her labia craves a French kiss —

this is romantic coitus.

 

The moisture means she’s having fun —

no one tastes fair like your loved one;

be always patient and discreet

and lick in time to her heartbeat.

 

Her clitoris, that nubbin of

afflatus stimulating love,

will now desire, at its peak,

a tongue that oscillates mystique.

 

And when ye hear a lusty yell

ye know that ye have rung her bell;

it gives ye pride to coax those moans

from deep inside her carnal zones.

 

Now, when her orgasm doth crest,

desist all pressure, I’d suggest;

release slowly your loving mouth

and tremble from that ‘dining south.’

 

Then, when she’s done, with throbs and sighs,

do nuzzle thanks upon her thighs;

and this is how to guarantee

a merry wife will loyal be.

 

That ‘eating pussy,’ vulgar called,

will guarantee that she’s enthralled;

aye, cunnilingus is the best —

forget thy penis, ’tis a pest!

 

Now, swiving, as a gen’ral thing,

proliferates couples’ offspring;

to tip the velvet’s just for joy

so pucker up, and don’t be coy.

 

 

 

Fellatio

 

[One is] compensated for loss of innocence by loss of prejudices.
— Diderot. 

 

Some women like it once a week —

men, twice a day, to hear them speak;

some ladies do it, if done nice —

most gents don’t care, just make it twice;

some wenches say it’s in bad taste

while lads sign on with all due haste;

some damsels say, quotha, ‘’tis gross’ —

deprived, most lads would be morose;

some women’d have it banned outright 

while fellows love it at first sight.

 

This tension of opinion makes

for hurt feelings, as well headaches;

the fairer sex does wonder if

it’s simply some masculine myth;

‘that’s fiddle-faddle,’ dudes declaim,

‘bring on the saddle, thinking’s lame’;

and, so it goes, the great divide —

the gents and dames each take a side;

it is a proposition that

began before the world was flat.

 

The ladies say, fellatio

condones behavior far too low;

some dames will say it’s unrefined 

’tho not as bad as from behind;

perhaps appears it seems risqué 

no one gets in the fam’ly way;

you might think that would be good news,

a woman with the right to choose;

but, then again, you never know

when etiquette won’t tell you so.

 

It’s said the taste is too bizarre,

like vichyssoise or caviar;

but there’s not much there to impugn —

it comes out less than a teaspoon;

now, certain ways of phrasing it

sound pretty damn indelicate;

I’d rather ’twas a  compliment,

inferring frisson excellent;

so, maybe one day, when ‘it sucks,’

that means it’s worth a million bucks.

 

 

 

Rococo Bosoms

 

Rococo bosoms, soft and round —

oh, how they leave a gent spellbound;

they’re cradled high on empire waists

to represent the best of tastes;

it’s true the daintiest of breasts

are quite mondaine, as art suggests;

they’re in the paintings famous for

how little on top ladies wore;

they easily will make hommes sigh,

those little bosoms, pointing high.

 

Rococo bosoms, pink and pale —

they make even a coxcomb quail;

they’re in the work of Fragonard,

the best of mammeries, by far;

perhaps you’ve seen those shoulders bare —

it’s pretty scant, the clothes they wear;

and how such busts exiguous

were thought most pulchritudinous;

‘cause all that bouncing’s unrefined,

impelling a low state of mind.

 

Rococo bosoms, so petite —

they’re de rigueur for the elite;

they seem so chic and elegant,

those little chests so decadent;

and what bosom was famous more

than that of Madame Pompadour?;

it seems as if she never had

occasion for her bosom clad;

and of these bosoms so displayed,

who could imagine ones man-made?

 

Wortley Clutterbuck is the author of Wortley Clutterbuck’s Practical Guide to Deplorable Personages and the operetta Scuttlebutt. Recent work rejected by Granta, Poetry, VQR and other degenerated organs of the aristocracy. To be further scandalized, please attend to http://wortleyclutterbuck.blogspot.com.