The Unsexy Echidne. Some Light Relief.

While surfing the Internet I found a comment on my unsexy lefto-feminazi writing style. It was brilliant! I'm like a walking abstinence vaccination! The wingnuts should adore me, should they not?

And that commenter was correct. To prove it, here is a bad poem I once wrote about sex. I think it was caused by reading Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" (which, naturally, is not at all a bad poem in terms of its poetic structure):

Let us make love then
on the feather bed.
Remind me of the time when
I will be cold and dead.

And I will come to you
naked to the bones
and I will walk through you,
and echo in your moans.

And our bones will lock and creak
And our hearts will sweat
My lips will peck yours, like a beak
And make you cold and wet.

Let us make love then
on the feather bed.
I will let you know when
my appetite is fed.

Mmm. Better than a condom. But I could probably write sexy if I really tried. (Blows gently on the nape of your neck.)