To the manor born

The gentry fascinate  me. They are distinguished not just by wealth and authority, but by marvelous peculiarities: not just haemophilia and weak chins, but delightful eccentricities. Fortunate folk, to be thus set apart by a mere accident of birth.  I’m jealous, of course. Wouldn’t we all love the leisure and means to be deliciously decadent!


Through the limpid Bombay afternoon,
As we wait out the summer monsoon,
To relieve the ennui
I take afternoon tea,
With the lady whose clothing’s here strewn.


Lady Forsythe, her clothing askew,
Claimed that someone, she didn’t know who,
Since his name now escaped her,
Quite possibly raped her,
Whilst bending down, tying her shoe.


If not born to the manner, begin
By acquiring a taste for good gin,
And when plumbing the arse
Of a woman of class
Have a fellow to play violin.


One could honestly publish a book
About Alfons , our myopic cook:
What a jolly old farce,
When he stuffed the maid’s arse,
Not the turkey’s (like which it did look!)



If of sex Lady Sarah grew bored,
Then she not only slept, but she snored:
But although it peeved some,
She had great tits and bum,
And it gave one carte-blanche if ignored!


Lady Forsythe will lower her breeches
For any of aquiline features:
She won’t condescend
In the slightest to bend,
But accepts any pizzle that reaches!


Lady Anne, with remarkable candour,
Confessed to a quick one-night-stander
With one of our peers,
Who much prefers queers,
Though this, of course, might well be slander.


That remarkable stud, Casanova
Was kept all his long life in clover,
By fucking his patrons,
Society matrons,
In public, and over and over!



In the midst of a polo-crosse chukka,
It’s simply not proper, nor pukka,
When offered the crumpet
Of some local strumpet,
To jump off your pony and fuck her.


In the clipped tones befitting her class,
Said the Duchess, face down in the grass,
“Though you’re hardly my equal,
By way of a sequel
To straight sex, I give you my arse!”


Oh, ‘tis grand in the crisp, misty dawn,
To the sound of the hounds and the horn,
To embark on the hunt,
With one’s upper-class cunt
Wearing smoother one’s saddle well-worn!


Said my butler, the soul of discretion,
Composed both of voice and expression,
“Milord, might I look,
While you’re fucking with cook?
And a word, sir: she fancies it Grecian.”


On pain of disgrace and dismissal,
One’s maid should respond to one’s whistle,
And, lifting her smock,
Part her cheeks for one’s cock,
Or submit to the cane, strap or bristle.


Having humbly his bowler hat doffed,
Jiggs, the butler respectfully coughed,
And said “Madam, the dirt
And the gravel will hurt:
One should fuck on the grass, where it’s soft.”


Through the smock that my parlour-maid dons
You can see her luxuriant mons:
It occasions more snickers
Than if she wore knickers,
Which garment she tends to go sans!


In the night, or at least after dusk,
On his mattress of coconut husk,
Lest he lose his aplomb
The expatriate Pom
Fucks his wife in a manner most brusque.


Said the milk-maid to James Brown Esquire,
“Milord, I shall truly expire!
Your cock, long and wide
Has undone me inside,
But before I die, push it in higher!”


When Leticia Fitzgerald-Jones fainted,
A chap not the least bit acquainted
Thought “How’s that for luck!”
He partook of a fuck,
And then left her there, gooey and tainted!



With the tip of my pearl-handled foil,
I toucheed her clitoris royal.
The onlookers were hushed;
Quoth Her Majesty, flushed,
“That is not, Sir, according to Hoyle!”


I consider it jolly good form
To reside where the climate is warm:
When the weather’s cyclonic,
To drink gin and tonic,
And talk about Somerset Maugham.


The rich ride in pursuit of the fox,
Across fields, through gardens and flocks.
It’s a sexual thing:
The hounds bay, bugles ring,
Jodhpurs strain over fannies and cocks.


In the days when Brittania was grander,
A girl could laze on her verandah,
And tickle her twat
When the weather was hot,
While a muscular black fellow fanned her.


The young lady who lives in the Grange,
For her hounds has a passion quite strange:
She does things with her beagle
Distinctly illegal,
And has, says her house-maid, the mange!


From the stable-yard’s deepening gloom
Lady Sarah, with cheeks all abloom,
Came with clothing skewiff,
Whilst with organ still stiff,
In the shadows lurked Hitchcock, the groom!


Only give a rich girl a free hand,
And your fuck will be splendid and grand:
She’ll arrange, when she comes,
For the beating of drums,
Trumpet fanfare, or whole damned brass band!


Lady Wentworth, just back from the hunt,
Was assailed with an instrument blunt,
With such strength and such force,
She could not sit a horse
On the region that suffered the brunt!


Should one’s butler or footman intrude
In a room where one’s wife’s being screwed,
He should promptly withdraw,
Closing also the door,
So madame may, in private, conclude.


He dismissed both the butler and maid,
And he pulled down the living-room shade.
He said “Sit by the fire.
Come, lift your skirt higher.
You know, dear, how well you’ll be paid!”


I like ladies in satins and minks,
Fond of pouts and lascivious winks:
They’re so commonly bored,
And can gladly afford
To indulge in some decadent kinks!



Said Miss Vanderbilt, “Please, sir, no more!
I insist that you promptly withdraw!
I reserve my vagina
For something much finer
Than what may be done with a whore!”


I’ve a penchant for lasses whose mums
Make them speak with a mouthful of plums,
Who wear tight skirts and heels,
Which nicely reveals
The sway of their silken-smooth bums.


Lady Swandown agreed to be painted:
“By art,” she said, “one can’t be tainted.”
She gladly posed nude,
But refused to be screwed,
And yet was, when he flashed, and she fainted.


As the cook kneaded dough for the pasta,
Being watched by her lecherous master,
Her dress became wet
With her sweet-smelling sweat
As he urged her to knead his dough faster!


Sobbed the maid,”I’ve been diddled and pawed!
My poor teats have been nibbled and gnawed!
Lord Hugh never behaved
So uncouth and depraved:
I suspect that you, sir, are a fraud!



If you’re stuck in the rain in Rangoon,
A loose woman’s a fabulous boon:
You can endlessly screw her,
Do other things to her,
And never go out until June!


Lady Sarah Smythe-Jones, by repute,
Leads a life, in a word, dissolute:
She drinks only champagne,
Likes her sex mixed with pain,
And quite likes the alternative route.



A young gamekeeper, doing his rounds,
Saw the mistress out walking the grounds:
He eyed Lady Chatterley,
Dressed rather nattily,
Tongue hanging out like his hound’s!


When one’s forebears are by and large royal,
One does rather shirk honest toil,
And also expect
That girls show their respect,
And lie down and act suitably loyal.


Wearing nothing but reins and a saddle
Dame Edith, with chauffeur astraddle,
Her buttocks red raw,
Pranced about on the floor,
Shouting “Home James, and don’t spare the paddle!”


As he burst in on Madam’s seclusion,
Said Jenkins, “Forgive my intrusion,
But cook’s run amuck,
And I thought we might fuck,
While the household is still in confusion.


Through the keyhole such scandal one sees,
Said the butler, as smug as you please:
“I have just seen the squire
Aflame with desire,
And Cook, nude, on elbows and knees!”


A girl’s clitoris stands, like a sentry,
On guard at the portal of entry:
It may not let pass
The uncouth lower class,
But stands up and salutes for the gentry!


In the front pew, throughout the long sermon,
The squire’s wife squirmed in her ermine.
She grimaced and twitched,
And she scratched where it itched:
It was plain she was crawling with vermin!


I require these things in a servant:
She must be discreet and observant,
Must do what she’s told,
Not be overly bold,
But when called on to fuck me, be fervent!


I’m informed by reliable sources,
(And witness the spate of divorces,)
That Admiral Skinner
Goes naked at dinner,
And fucks his guests’ wives between courses!


In the days of colonial splendour,
The night breeze blew perfumed and tender,
And many a night
It was memsahib’s delight
To sip gin, while she stroked her pudenda.


Though she’s rich and has cash in large sums,
And wears rings on her fingers and thumbs,
Her transcendent delight
Is to sneak out at night,
For a tradesman-like fuck in the slums.


Upon seeing the mistress at table,
One wouldn’t imagine her able
Of fucking the groom,
Or that thing with his broom,
In the straw, on the floor of the stable!


Though my blue-blood erection may throb,
And go purple and red at the knob,
I will not touch an arse
Of the mercantile class:
I’m at bottom, a sexual snob!


Lady Jane said “Although I may tire,
I burn still with carnal desire.
The bed may be wet
With your masculine sweat:
But as yet I just gently perspire.


The  outrageous Miss Abigail Tupp
Went to Flemington course for the Cup:
She was photographed there,
With her hind-quarters bare,
And with forty-eight kilograms up.


Lady Edith, in kid gloves and tweed,
Felt an urgent indelicate need,
So she hitched up her skirt,
Lest it drag in the dirt,
Or get wet at the hem when she peed.


Woman in Pleated Tweed Skirt


Lady Wetherby loves to be used,
In a manner that oft leaves her bruised:
To begin with, she strips,
And is beaten  with whips.
After which she’s more roundly abused.

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