A Whore Called Drew



I had a friend called Harry.
The fool thought he'd marry
a little whore called Drew,
from whose smile you knew
that she be one of those girls
to grip a man by the short 'n curls,
and crunch them vice-like anew
every time he glanced askew.

I saw him late one day
running from the house, afrai'
chased by the fearsome dame
screaming words I dread to name.
But he winked at me briefly
as if to say, chiefly,
that despite all the dread
she be worth it in bed.

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