There once was a masseur so bold,
Whose fingers would wander and fold.
With sheets tucked in tight,
He’d claim “all is right,”
But his stories grew sordid when told.
A gent on the table declared,
“My testicles felt rather snared!
One hand went adrift,
As though playing a rift,
And frankly I felt quite impaired.”
The ladies spoke up with a frown,
Of breasts where his hands lingered down.
And with noises of trains,
He rehearsed his refrains,
Like a creep in a carnival gown.
The bosses took notes of the crime,
Complaints stacking higher each time.
The verdict was clear,
“Your license stops here,
For your conduct’s both lewd and a slime.”
So heed now this cautionary song,
A masseur who went gravely wrong:
When trust is betrayed,
Reputation decayed,
And the journey was short, though too long.