Hyde—And—Seek
 

The FRY-day ride is starting, and it’s Hyde upon his saddle,

An artist known for “tarting” in the heated heart of battle;

But those he pricked are wiser now— his wicked jig is up. 

He smiles behind his visor, then adjusts his loving cup:

My mask is on securely, and my codpiece sits in place;

I’ll hit the wenches early, and commence a merry chase.

I’ll saunter to Australia for a triple with the twins— 

Removing my regalia, I can double-point my sins.

The Jester’s in her closet, and I film in infra-red,

But since it’s cramped I’ll pause it, then I’ll spangle her in bed.

I like that Paula watches, so again I notch the post—

Two swatches for two crotches that I boast I love the most.

So then it’s off to Britain for a bit of fish-and-chips,

And when she’s lit and smitten I’ll be fixed betwixt her hips.

I’ll wait, then take the red-eye in a tube of phallic might—  

A dead-eye tantric Jedi, I’m a transatlantic knight. 

I’m sure they’ll storm behind me, form a posse for pursuit,

To bind me when they find me, just to gore the storied brute;

But first they have to snatch me, yet this mad Lothario

Makes sure they’ll never catch me— not in north Ontario.

There’s one whom I’ve been viewing in her room (from on her lawn),

Where soon I shall be wooing at the oozing crack of Dawn.

It’s never sanctuary, though, no matter how I feel,

She knows I’ll never marry and will die before I kneel.

So, off again, evading all the hens who shrewdly cluck—

They hunt the devastating dude who screwed a new Canuck.

She’s Gloria, a lady who is shady with her kiss—

I feel like Warren Beatty; she’s like Sarah Palin’s sis.

But Gloria is fleeting and the seeding has to end,

For all the hens are speeding up, and wheeling round the bend.

They hope their flames impinge me, but the gap has spanned too wide,

And though their rage may singe me, they can only tan my Hyde.

…To Be Continued