John Whitworth Casanova loves potato. Chips are what he gives his chick. Though she be as chaste as Plato Sizzling chips will do the trick.
What a rhizome, steal some, buy some, Mother Nature’s passion fruit! Guys from Cuba prize that tuber. Senoritas dig that root.
Monks in cloisters swear by oysters. Fatties crave a chocolate bar. Horn of rhino? You and I know Here’s a food that’s better far.
Slice ’em, mash ’em, dice ’em, smash ’em, Spuds are just the stuff for ladies. Cold as ice girls, far too nice girls — Soon they’ll be as hot as Hades!
W.J. Webster If you’re no rouser, more a wilter, Don’t look for aid from some quack philtre; When the will itself is flaccid It won’t be helped by magic acid; It needs no rare exotic unction To spark a passionate conjunction. What makes a laggardly libido As fired up as a primed torpedo Is just to feed the dormant beast With Nature’s raising agent — yeast. As an extract in a jar It’s Aphrodite’s avatar. So lay past failure’s lowering ghost By sharing Marmite on hot toast. Its taste’s divisive, so they say, But it unites us in this way.
G.M. Davis When I first dated Gloria I took her out to dine In a funky little trattoria With magic food & wine.
She ate and drank like Orson Welles But after, at my flat, Repelled all my seductive spells By playing a dead bat.
The Arsenal back four of old Could not have kept it tighter. Her quim, it seemed, was Fort Knox gold. I never could ignite her Until I dressed, one Halloween, As Picard from Star Trek, When, smoothly as a limousine, Her knickers hit the deck.
David Silverman No oyster, sensual balm nor potion, Potent herb from Eastern arbour, Embrocation, oil nor lotion Amplifies my amorous ardour. No wacky backy, potted plants Nor musky, lusty scents from France, Romantic mantras, tantric chants Will put me in a lover’s trance. No chance will yucca make me pucker; Catkins make me sicker more; Hempen hash gives me a rash And speed just makes us bicker more. No opium poppy sends me soppy; Ginseng makes me sad and blue. All other trees just make me sneeze: My aphrodisiac is yew.
George Simmers At first she tends to shudder when she sees me coyly nude. No worries! I’ve a stratagem that gets her in the mood. When she was just a teenager, her parents kept a farm, And she knew a local yokel with a certain rustic charm He wooed her in the rural way, and took her, not to bed But to where they kept the tractors, just beside the chicken shed. Since then the little chookie noise a hen makes as it pecks Reminds her irresistibly of sweet and lovely sex. I therefore start a-chooking, gently, gently, cause I know The sound is going to stir her, till she tingles head to toe She’ll be in the mood for clucking, and we’ll do the thing we do And we’ll finish it together with a ‘Cock-a doodle doo!’
Frank McDonald A coconut with lusty, rounded shell Both smooth and rough with half a hint of hair Makes my imagination hot as hell And generates a joy too much to bear. Then split apart its whiteness can expel Flavours of fun that wait my lingual care. I raise it to my lips, a tempting treasure, And hesitate before my tongue tastes pleasure.
I’m mad and bad, of course, but who can blame me For making use of my imagination? Though prudish gossips preach and seek to shame me Where is the harm in mental masturbation? No foolish law or moral code will tame me; My life has been one long ejaculation. A coconut can make me hard as iron Which, after all, is what they want from Byron.
Your next challenge is to submit a poem composed of three haikus that looks forward to the year ahead. Email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 December. Please note the earlier-than-usual deadline, which is because of our seasonal production schedule.
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