I’m typically a Jekyll, but at times the script is flipped,
So if I start to heckle hens, you’ll know who cracked the crypt.
It’s Hyde, the crass rapscallion, who emerges to defile,
A snorting, sporting stallion with a wild, cavorting style.
As Hyde, I’ll ride you roughly, or perhaps I’ll slow the pace,
Communicating gruffly, or addressing you with grace.
You see, it’s all depending on the best approach to reach
A horizontal ending in a bed or on a beach;
Or maybe in a stable, where I’ll lay you in the hay;
Or possibly a cable car, the San Francisco way;
Or how about the ocean, in the cabin of a boat,
Where flowing with the motion, all my seamen come to float.
You see, I vet the setting of our bedding with a glance,
So when we’re heavy petting, cue the music of the dance;
But as the song’s abating, I’ll desert you where you are,
And as the night is fading, I’ll be on a brighter star,
For women only glimmer to a rogue before they’re had,
So afterwards they’re dimmer, and transparent to the cad.
But don’t feel bad, my harlot, you’re an object caught between
The flashing of a starlet, and a dashing libertine.
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Author Notes
It's Fry-Day for the rogue, who has been vilified by some of the comely ladies of FS for his dastardly deeds. All in fun between friends, so please don't take this as my personal philosophy, or a serious shot at women, whom I love. Thanks for reading or playing, or both.
Iambic hectameter, with massive internal rhyming and assonance, but a set internal rhyme in the 8th and 9th syllable.
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