The following poem is based on a true story, however names have been changed for confidentiality purposes.
"I do..."; the words echoed in his tiny, money obsessed, mind. And then... It was over...As fast as it had began. Faster than Marks meaty butcher fingers clumsily penetrating Miss Cornwall 1962, Tracey Turners once fruitful gash, now it lay there, barren and decrepit.
Occasionally lit, dimly by the spark that is an ageing mayfly given a tainted life by the rusty crocodile clips attached by a sexually frustrated, gimp suit clad Mark to her floppy grey beef curtains.
As Tracey summoned a meagre orgasm, 3 out of 10 at best, her lifeless juices, reminders of a brighter past, oozed disgustingly out of her casserole of nonsense, desperately clinging, clawing with the finger nails, to her gammy pubes.
But we digress, for Matt stood, hunched and watched with a pained look burned on his ugly as fuck face, as the intruder, Mark, slipped a cold golden shackle on to Traceys sexually experienced fingers, Matt knew...
He had lost her.
Mark, the smug bastard, turned to Matt, gave him a distinctively taunting wink, and uttered a final foul stanza...
"Who's your daddy‽ "
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