TL;DR: I saw your nakey-nakey photos. You're hot and local. Let's fuck!
Young maiden oh so fair,
in the dew-drenched hours of this morrow
did I, Sir Ponce-a-Lot,
encounter your visage and form
in a manner of undress most captivating.
Unable to contain my gaiety
at the turgidity of my tumescence,
I knew that I must proposition you thus:
Oh, most splendid and comely wench,
you know me not, but I confess I am overcome
with impropriety at your image.
Dost thou care to fornicate?
My place of abode,
'tis but a country mile from your own.
Most eagerly in anticipation,
Sir Ponce-a-Lot.
Yeah, it's a funny little poem, alright, but there's more to it than that. Women (at least the ones I want to spend time with and engage in conversation) know that it's the TL;DR part (but dressed up in better clothes and with a haircut). It just goes to show that it's not so much what you write as how you write it, provided you make a little effort. (That poem took me literally less than ten minutes, excluding edits and alterations.) As a result of posting this on Fartloaf, I have got far more requests to read profiles and send badly-written and suggestive poetry based on them to beautiful strangers on the Web than I ever could have anticipated. When I'm a man who uses his third eye (no, not the one between my legs) in a town full of mouth-breathing, low-slung eyebrowed one-eyed trouser snakes, it's hardly surprising, but I didn't expect it to be so easy to charm the lovely ladies there, not having had much success with that earlier in life. Still, the last year or so has been a very strange time in my life.
Thumbnail photo by Suzy Hazelwood from/on Pexels
