Version 1:

Monogamy can sometimes make one quite sore,
Though best not reveal that to your lover du jour.
Instead smile and batter your eyelashes
Look demure, passive, like a thief about to steal a whole load of cashes
And know that tomorrow might bring a whole lot o’sorrow
Oh un-knot that furrow!
And no I am not joking,
Nor do I enjoy smoking
Instead like the wind with the leaves
I get a little peeved
If I’m only allowed to blow one.

Version II:

Monogamy like sodomy can make one quite sore,
Though best not reveal that to your lover du jour.
Instead smile, look demure and sink your eyebrows in submission
Adopt a still pose, like an old man who's a'fishin.'
Because it is a truism, a fact we do know,
Though we’re ever so slow
And so dare not preach
The Truth: Stick to your lies and your alibi’s,
There is not a better lesson to teach,
For they will stand you in good stead -
When? Did you say?
Oh God how I pray for the day
Where instead of orchestring all our rotten morals
And being at one with all our quarrels
People will frolick in Dionysian rapture,
Lying in heaps of exhausted limbs
After hours of screwing and kama sutra flicking
It will be a world of naked bodies and crimson blushed lips,
Of women and men, ladies and gentleman
Celebrating hedonistic rights,
Bugger to order and everything that makes sense
Bugger to politics and those procrastinating sitting on the fence.
My loyalty is to Dionysus and the sun
I live my life like the wind with the leaves
And become peeved,
If I’m only allowed to blow one.

Version III:


Monogamy like sodomy can make one quite sore,
Though best not reveal that to your lover du jour.
Instead smile, look demure, resurrect your innocence from the deep
Whilst adopting a still pose like a tiger before she makes her leap.
Because it is a truism, a fact we do know,
Though it is not vogue to preach,
But fashions are fickle, so read it right now: The Truth.
The lies and alibi’s that you weave through the night,
Stick to them like a magnet, stay true to them like a Christian.
For those lemmings who harp about the right way
As they quietly maul you with their lorry load of learnt lessons
Which they lovingly vomit all over you,
Their hands clasped in rhapsody as they stand there a twittering
About the rules of sharing a bed
Yet there is a part of them that wilts as it reads
Of the nakedness of the Dionysian frolickers
Who lie in heaps of exhausted limbs
After hours of screwing and kama sutra flicking.
That world wherein lie naked bodies and the crimson blushed lips
Of women and men, ladies and gentleman
Celebrating hedonistic rights.
Who say bugger to order and everything that makes sense
Bugger to politics and those procrastinating sitting on the fence.
Now I declare myself loyal to Dionysus and the sun.
Angels can play their harp and sing their lullabies in heaven
But down here, songs only last three minutes, music perhaps an hour,
So like the bear that is sore for his honey
Or the whore who sleeps with anyone or a bit o’money
Morals just produce more quarrels,
Or, like that dove that flew with his piece of laurel
Prepare to see them splattered against a windscreen,
So their message never reaches its destination
Like the rats in the sewers, infestations are always lurking even in the most beautiful places,
But the things that fill this poem are not dark, nor is the message,
Rats and piss and bile and disease
Could so easily be fleas speckled with diamonds, volcanoes that erupt with dandelion fluff
And guns that fire chocolate.
Fantasy is not reality,
Peter had to grow old,
Santa probably gets colds
To dissolve one’s self into such Dionysian hedonism,
To rip away the censures of he mind
To stumble as if blind, but in a field where the grass whispers the way
And then standing beside me is only one,
Like the moon and the one sun,
When I say that like the wind plays with the leaves
I get a little peeved
If I am only allowed to blow one,
Know that fantasy and reality
Are separate and instead I prefer frugality
To the opulence and grandiose gestures
Of open legged lovers,
Who aware of their immortality
Run like Oedipus to his mother
Sobbing as they laugh, wrapping their arms
Around the woman who gave them life,
Like a worm wriggling into hard soil
Their mothers’ arms are their foil,
And from that no ecstasy can be found.