by Danny "Don Juan" Henrey.
Mad Jack Schulzie came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his Aston was gleaming in green, red and gold;
And the sheen of its paint was like stars on the sea,
As the pearl moon gleams nightly on proud Trinity.
For the spirit of Byron coursed through M.J.'s veins;
From racing, port and wenching could he not refrain:
A fine figure he cut - tanned, macho and horny,
Crouched at the wheel gulping mouthfuls of Old Tawny.
Onward he thundered, swigging, and railing 'gainst fate -
For a date made at Sweeney's was he far too late;
Then spied he his girl; with smiles, charm and fluster,
He lied: "My scout failed to wake me, dearest Augusta."
Soon were they speeding through field, vale and savanna,
She sipping white wine, he caressing his banana:
Glancing across, Rich whispered, "My lambkin, my dove,
You know that you are my one and only true love!"
"Rowing, boozing and racing are vital to some,
But I'd rather trace lightly the lines of your face",
So saying, he started to fondle her contours,
Hoping to see more sights than had Byron's "Giaour".
Swerving out of control, with no hands on the wheel,
The vintage steed slither'd and shimmied like an eel:
It leapt a low fence, and with a resonant PLUNG,
Flew blithely into a mound of maturing dung.
Smelly but safe, they to a close duck pond did wend,
And 'though M.J. still loved, she sobbed, "This is the end!"
So young Byronists all, before you nibble, think -
Nip at the wrong moment, and you too will raise a stink!