Oh where has that naughty girl gone?
Has she once more gone astray?
She hides in the oddest of places,
And she’s sometimes gone for days.
And who knows where she goes to,
And who knows where she’s been,
The men she’s used or substances abused,
It’s quite the ugly scene.
And when I find her she will fill my head,
With thoughts inappropriate,
And so you see it’s her not me,
Who writes this filthy smut.
Sometimes I try to punish her,
And call her a filthy whore,
But she wriggles her voluptuous bottom at me,
Giggles and cries “More!”
I try to coax her with love and nature,
But she just says it makes her ill,
And embarrasses me for even thinking it,
As my fingers type at her will.
From the satire of Shel Silverstein,
To the wit of Dorothy Parker,
But so morose she scorns my prose,
And urges me “Darker, darker.”