LOGAN LIKED GIRLS.

[dadio]

Logan liked the girls, liked them well covered,
Not handles of brooms, liked his pound of flesh.
Irish girls were best, he thought and argued
And filled his black book with the names of them.
What of the sisters? O’Brien asked him,
Which one did you fuck? Logan gave a laugh.
Oh the Murphy twins, are you talking of?
O’Brien nodded. Mary and Martha,
Logan softly sighed. To tell you the truth,
O’Brien, my boy, I couldn’t say which.
They look so alike, even when undressed
And lying in bed. What of Mary’s mole?
O’Brien enquired. Mary has a mole?
Logan asked and frowned. Yes, on her right thigh,
O’Brien replied. Logan scratched his head,
Gazed at O’Brien. How would you know that?
Said Logan grimly, putting down his pint,
Exhaling the smoke. She showed me herself,
Replied O’Brien, I’ve no idea why,
Just out of the blue. There I was one night,
Minding my business, drinking and smoking,
Laughing and joking, when she says to me,
Have you seen my mole? No, says I, I’ve not.
So she takes me off, and lifts up her skirt,
And shows me her thigh, and there sure enough,
Before my blue eyes, her lovely brown mole.
Logan sipped his pint, winked at O’Brien
And gave out a sigh. I’ve not seen a mole,
On any girl’s thigh, Logan said sadly.
Must have been Martha, with her big blue eyes
And her lovely tits, that I fucked last week,
Mused Logan brightly. That’s solved that puzzle,
O’Brien remarked, at least you know now,
Which one you’ve bedded and which you have not.
That’s true, Logan said, sipping his porter,
Studying the arse, as she just walked by
With her swaying hips, O’Malley’s daughter.