FRILLY ONES

                                                              By

                                                     John G. Sutton

                                            The idea was to meet a life partner

                                            A man she could love and adore

                                            So she joined a posh dating agency

                                             Seeking GSOH and much more

                                            In her notes re herself she was careful

                                            All rugby, classics and art

                                            Hinted at up-market connections

                                            Thought this would perhaps be a start

                                            But Cupid kept missing his target

                                            Useless every damn man and Jack

                                            These bozos were not seeking marriage

                                            Just wanted a roll in the sack

                                            Then came Timothy James Bowes-Lion

                                            Who said that his family were rich

                                            They met by the bookies in Clapham

                                            Where his dad had a spot the queen pitch

                                            Tim offered to take her to dinner

                                            As much as our lady could eat

                                            Said he would be paying for supper

                                            And this was his special treat

                                             After soup of the day with house red

                                             And a portion of cold Coq-a-Vin

                                             Timothy suggested some rhubarb

                                             Said it always worked well for him

                                             The conversation was flagging

                                             His grandfather paved old Soho Square

                                             Said his uncle had been shot by a Zulu

                                             This was really going nowhere

                                            So seeking to brighten the moment

                                            She offered her thoughts on the Tate

                                            Tim stared in utter bemusement

                                            Looked at his watch said ‘What! Is it late?’

                                             Outside the black cabs kept passing

                                             Ignoring Tim’s waving and hailing

                                             She gazed in his eyes, gave one of those sighs

                                             And then it started raining

                                             Back at his bedsit in Hackney

                                             He showed her his trophies the lot

                                             There were medals and shields from the jungle

                                             And a spear from that man who got shot

                                             Then he opened a bottle between them

                                             It was Cava from Tesco’s two cups

                                             She’d just took a sip of the bubbly

                                             When Tim reached out for her pups

                                             Now Tim’s idea of foreplay

                                             Amounted to jiggling her bust

                                             She pushed him away, cursing the day

                                             But he could not control his wild lust

                                             As luck would have it that evening

                                            She’d dressed for a date with a swell

                                             So as he slipped off her black number

                                             Tim’s eyes nearly popped ‘Bloody Hell!’

                                            She was wearing suspenders and frilly ones

                                            Tim’s heart beat so loud she could hear

                                            As he stood by the doorway gasping

                                            Then he jumped, missed and fell on that spear

                                            The Times obituary column

                                            Spoke of a tragic mishap

                                            Of how his uncle’s collection

                                            Put paid to Tim, the poor chap

                                            It was weeks before she went dating

                                            The memory of Tim was still near

                                            And each time she slipped on her frilly ones

                                            Her mind went back to that spear

                                             This tale it does have a moral

                                             For ladies of all creeds and races

                                             Beware of those black frilly undies

                                             Some can kill at fifteen paces!

BACK