The top's a lovely place to start,
When rhyming names of erstwhile tarts,
So let us start this tired song,
The premiere point is called "The Thong."
(That's the floss that 'caused the trouble),
Look: life's confusing in a bubble,
I thought let's get my girl a thong;
We hadn't even dated long.
A fortnight only we had come,
Clearly I was after some.
So -- no -- she didn't like the gift,
Nature's forces b'gan to shift.
And she surmised the upper hand,
Thus I from lower-regions banned,
But look it's Christmas: gifts are tough,
I could never do enough.
"Fuckit -- this thong her gift shall be,"
To be enjoyed by her and me,
'Course that's only if she decides,
That I merit a panty ride.
"A musty romp in proverbial hay,"
Where I succeed at getting laid.
But lo, alas, 'tis not to be,
My gift prov'd fatal, unfortunately.
This top step of love's staircase,
Begins my journal of disgrace.
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