When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue;
When it bends in the middle like a one string fiddle.
He can tell you a tale or two.
So pull up a chair and stand me a drink,
And a tale to you I’ll say,
About Dick Head Dave and Bollockless Clegg,
And a trollop called Theresa May.
When Dick Head Dave and Bollockless Clegg
Go forth in search of fun,
It’s Dick Head Dave who wields the prick.
And Bollockless Clegg the gun.
Now Dick Head Dave and Bollockless Clegg
Live round by Downing Street
And such was their luck that they’d had no fuck for nigh on half a week
Dave pounded his cock with a huge piece of rock,
And he said I want to play.
It’s been almost a week on this friggin’ street
With no fanny coming my way.
So do or dare, this horney pair
Set off for the street called Strand.
They jumped on their bikes
In search of some dykes,
And Clegg with a gun in his hand.
They reached that grand old street called Strand
At the height of a blazing noon.
To slake their thirst and do their worst
They sought slack Alice’s saloon.
The swinging doors they pushed back wide,
Both prick and gun flashed free.
“According to sex, you bleeding wrecks,
You’ll drink or you’ll fuck with me”.
Now they’d heard of the prick of Dick Head Dave
From Hampstead to Potters Bar,
So, with nothing worse than a muttered curse,
The fellows all sought the bar.
When Dave walked in to a house of sin,
The whores all cursed their luck,
Not even a tart, dared let out a fart,
When he said, “I want to fuck”.
The girls they knew of his playful ways,
Down on the street called Strand,
And forty whores pulled down their drawers
At Dick head Dave’s command.
For they saw the finger of Bollockless Clegg
Move on the trigger grip,
So they did not wait, and at a fearful rate
Those whores began to strip.
Now Dick Head Dave was breathing quick,
With lecherous snorts and grunts,
So forty bums were bared to view,
And so were forty cunts.
Now Dick Head Dave had screwed a few
On the last preceding night,
This he had done just to have some fun,
And to whet his appetite.
His phallic limb was in fighting trim
As he backed and took a run.
He made a dart at the nearest tart,
And scored a hole in one.
The lady he bore to the dusty floor,
And there he filled her fine,
And though she grinned, it put the wind
Up the other thirty nine.
He had made a dart at the next fair tart,
When into that harlot’s hell,
Strode a gentle maid who was unafraid:
Her name was Theresa May.
But Dick Head Dave had got his prick
Well into number two,
When Theresa May gave out a neigh,
She bawled to him, “Hey you”.
Dave gave a flick of his muscular prick,
And the girl flew over his head,
He then wheeled about with an angry shout;
His face and his balls were red.
Theresa glanced our hero up and down.
His looks she seemed to decry,
With utter scorn, she sneered at the horn,
Which rose from his hairy thigh.
She blew the smoke of her dainty fag
All over his steaming knob.
So utterly beat was Dick Head Dave,
That he failed to do his job.
It was Theresa May who saved the day,
In accents clear and cool:
“You cunt struck shrimp of a Taffy pimp,
You call that thing a tool?”
“If this here town can’t take that down”
She said to the cowering whores,
”There’s another cunt who can do the stunt,
But it’s Theresa May’s not yours.
She dropped her garments with an air of
Consummate pride.
And as she stood in her woman hood
They saw the great divide.
She flexed her knees with supple ease,
And spread her thighs apart.
With a friendly nod to the mangy sod
She gave him the cue to start.
Now Dick Head Dave knew more than one rave,
And he meant to take his time,
For a woman like this was orgasmic bliss,
So he played the pantomime.
He flexed his arsehole to and fro,
And made his balls inflate,
Until they looked like granite knobs,
On top of a palace gate.
He blew his anus inside out,
His balls increased in size,
His mighty prick grew twice as thick
And reached almost to his eyes.
Then he did neither start to run,
Nor did he take a leap.
Nor did he stoop, but with a swoop
Began a steady forward creep.
As a marksman might he took a sight,
Along his mighty tool,
And his steady grin as he pushed it in,
Showed a calculated cool.
But Dick Head Dave would not come quick,
He meant to conserve his powers,
For if he’d a mind, he’d grind and grind,
For sixteen solid hours.
Theresa lay a while with a subtle smile,
Then the grip of her quim grew keener,
And a squeeze of her thigh sucked him dry,
With the ease of a vacuum cleaner.
She performed this trick in a way so slick
As to set in complete defiance
The principle cause and the basic laws,
That govern sexual science.
She calmly strode through the phallic code,
Which for years had withstood the test,
And the ancient rules of the classic schools
In a moment or two went west.
Right here my friend, we come to the end
Of copulation’s classic:
The effect on Dave was sudden and grave
And akin to an anaesthetic.
He fell to the floor, and he knew no more
His passions extinct and dead,
Nor did he shout as his cock fell out
Though it had shrivelled right down to a thread.
She rose to her feet with a smile so sweet,
The “Bully” She said “For you.
I might have guessed that that was the best
That you poor pimps could do”
When next my friend that you intend,
To sally forth for fun,
Buy Dick head Dave a sugar stick,
And yourself an elephant gun.
She’s going forth to London’s north,
Where the peckers are hard and strong,
And Theresa May offers a nicer brand
To pricks that are nine inches long.
When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue, and the hole in the middle refuses to piddle,
I’d say he was stuffed, wouldn’t you?
