There is nothing quite so gay
As being humped by Mr Bump
Even if it takes several days
For the cuts and bruises to fade.
This morning when I went to work
The phone it rang and rang and rang
And I said, “Good morning, Wentworth & Times”
Politely, thirty thousand times.
My reflection mouthing dimly
In the circle of my cold tea
I saw Mr Nosy’s long purple nose
Caressing my legs as he sucked my toes.
Membership is by invitation
And there is the initiation
Test, where hopefuls are locked in a bordello
A panel watches the applicee
Masturbating over a picture of Mr Happy
And applies scores; I got
55 out of 60.
The club sits between the Pound shop and Boots,
The plaque reads The Mr Men F.C.
Little children going past grab their Mummies
And squeal, “Oo let me
Go,” but when Mummy rings the bell
There is silence and Mr Mystery.
Ah, if those passers-by could know
At midnight up those steps I go,
Ringing with the click-
Clack of my stilettos, pleasurably
Scratched by the frilly grit of
Suspenders beneath my pastel knit.
Blindfold, I am guided to a room
Where I lie in wetness waiting for
Long long long long long long
Arms to tickle me and make me soar
And so when I hear the sneeze,
My thighs tense up in agony; I pull
The blindfold off, see Little Miss Sunshine
And Mr Sneeze are up for a threesome.
They tried their best
To hit a climax of multiples
But at the end all I was left with
Was sore nipples and a cold.
On the way out I picked up a
Complaint form which I angrily thrust
In the face of the personnel
On duty, who informed me,
“The Mr Man you’ve requested is no longer available.”
“He has been dismissed.”
My morose heels sighed down the alley
When I became aware of – footsteps!
Right behind me
There were two long arms pinning me
Against the wall of the alley:
Mr Tickle, smiling as he gently
Pushed me down onto my knees,
Spaghetti arms curled around my throat
My Eve’s apple gasped to choke
In animated ecstasy.
For how I wish this was my fun by day:
Playing Petit Mort with Mr Tickle
Over and over again.
Sam Mills is the author of ‘The Quiddity of Will Self’, a novel which aims to be the literary equivalent of ‘Being John Malkovich’. It was described by the Guardian as so ‘outrageous as to defy conventional review’ and The Sunday Times as ‘an ingenious, energetic read’. Join the WSC at www.quiddityofwillself.co.uk