The lights shone bright, and yellow streaked,
the misty rainy, dampened street.
But they cared not, as up they stepped,
from taxi cab, at curbside left.
Now, the Lobby, they gain, and ring,
the Night managers bell, now there's a thing.
"Oh Sir, oh Madam, how can I help?"
Spoke forth the young bespotted whelp.
"A room my good man, and make it snappy!"
He grinned, at his girl, he felt quite happy!
She sighed, with sweet, and cautious pout,
of lips most beauteous, rouged, and nowt,
could stop from drinking of their wine,
but the Night Managers surly, high pitched whine.
"We do not have the bridal suite, for someone did set fire the sheets! Whilst smoking, which is most improper, for if you do, you cannot flop here."
"Never mind, a bed and shower is all we need, for I a Gardener, am in need. Of time and space, to plough and sow, some wild oats perhaps with hoe."
She giggled, in scandalised amaze, at such an uncouth turn of phrase!
With leery grin, and much scratched chin, the Night Manager, whose name was Jim, a key swept forth, from out a box.
He said: "Have this room, you sly old fox!"
Though such an informality, did not make for feelings of charity, our lusty hero, need at hand, did not complain or make a stand. His strength reserved for different trial, of passion great, and past denial!
With leery grin, and much scratched chin, the Night Manager, whose name was Jim, a key swept forth, from out a box.
He said: "Have this room, you sly old fox!"
Though such an informality, did not make for feelings of charity, but hate, our lusty hero, need at hand, did not complain or make a stand. His strength reserved for different trial, of passion great, and past denial!
The key he took, and away they turned, to go thence forth unto their room!
They stepped, they giggled, they kissed, and wriggled, and key he dropped, not once, but twice, such anticipation had he for that night!
Now finally, after many turn, a door they found, with a number burned,
in burnished brass, or was it gold? This indeed was just as they'd been told.
The number gleamed, in corridors light, twenty three, it was, how could that be right?
He was not going to be superstitious, his girl she was just too delicious!
To worry at all of conspiracy buffs,
and silly numbers, off the cuff.
His hand it grasped upon the knob, whilst other hand with key did fob, and turn and wrangle, 'til the door, did a whole new angle describe, and pushing in, with most awkward wriggle, the bed they spied, and more did she giggle.
He found a button, and he flicked, a gasp he heard, and then a lisp.
Not yet that naughty, our story has become, for lamps did light, where whence was none, a lit to banish, darkening gloom.
And now, both panting, shallow breaths, she closed the door, with practised step, that gave him pause, and made him wonder, just what magic spell she had him under.
Casting aside, all thought, all fear, and fueled by Whiskey shots, and Beer, he cast his jacket, shirt and trews, upon the floor, down by his shoes.
Her coat, she did with just one sweep, throw across a chaise longe, cheap. Her dress, over her head did fling, her frilly undies forth did spring,
into the light, and most brightly coloured, his passion rose, for he was no dullard.
He stood most armed, and with a mighty yell, he carried both, and upon they fell, the mattress old, and gayily covered, with his lips he upon her smothered, ardourous and rampant kisses, and she in turn responds with missives, a many an ah, and many a sigh, and many a gasp, and many why?
She wondered what he saw in her? But something down within her purred, and yearned and spoke and really demanded, and intelligent thought it reprimanded.
For this was good, and she did want it, she grabbed him hard, and deeply plumbed it.
He gasped, because, he was not ready, and although, he'd thought her steady, galloshes, had he not yet donned, to hold off problems later on!
"Hang on!" He gasped.
And " Wait a mo!"
But in vain did his protests grow.
For this was greater, than them both, and wrapped in lovers brace, their troth, was firmly and resolutely bound, by seed not spilt upon the ground.
And now the years, they have flown fast,
With children grown, and troubles past,
he should of conspiracies paid heed,
before he indulged his gardening need.
A Work in progress by Tamara Wilding March 2016
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