Memories of Rye on the Sussex Coast

People think that Rye's a glorious medieval town
With olde English tea-shoppes, antique shops and
More quaintness than you could shake a stick at;
Perhaps Autumn is the loveliest season there.
When the Summer sun has lost its heat and
Leaves are falling in the ancient cobbled streets.

But let me tell you of a tragic tale which occurred
To your interlocutor in this Sussex paradise on Earth:
I was there, walking gaily along the High Street
With my arm around a gorgeous piece of female flesh
Whose intimate charms I had recently explored
In the honeymoon suite of the old Mermaid Inn,

When the silly clumsy cow, doubtless day-dreaming
Of the stupendous poking she had just received
From my experienced and well-practised hands,
Slipped on a pile of damp deciduous leaves
And fell arse over mammaries into the roadway
And into the path of a passing steam-roller.

O what a sad mischance that the local council
Should have been conducting highway maintainance;
And O what hideous mess there was to behold
As the mighty vehicle's rotating drum destroyed her
Totally and utterly. O how I screamed in horror
To see how splashed my Hush Puppies were with gore.

But there was a silver lining to her tragic Autumnal demise
As her handbag fell clear of the doomsday machine
And, as I ran away from the bloodspattered scene,
I knew I would be able to empty her bank account
Before her cash-cards were invalidated. In any case,
I reflected, I was growing disenchanted with her stretchmarks.