A Canter-Buried Tale

There once were some writers, the RWA,
The wrote pretty stories, and they hearted their A's.
There were virgins and babies and cowboys, yippee-hoo,
There were Scotsman aplenty in kilts peekaboo.
All was joyful and happy on this Isle of Luv,
Tiny doves pulling rainbows, cherubs singing above.

But one day a vampire aspired to come in,
His fangs full of blood and his eyes full of sin.
The virgins they twittered, their thighs tightly closed.
"You canna breech us," they said with a scold

But the vampire was wily, and bided his time,
He tempted and baited, with hot looks sublime.
And far in the back, one young lass was seduced,
Her knees parted slightly, love-juices sluiced.

One by one, lasses slunk to the bough in the back,
Soon the rake was too busy, so he brought in a pack.
There were vampires, and wolves, and men of dark hair.
They diddled the virgins, pleasured screams filled the air.

On this isle of Romantica, the feasting began,
Prick-wuzzles and dil-doos, loins laced with cayenne.
The money-men watched with their eyes full of cash,
The ebb tides were turning, Hot Sex made a splash!

The prim-minded virgins watched with arms akimbo,
The doves left the building, their wings sinking low.
And in the land of perfumed, white rose bouquets,
There was heated discussion about the lurid sex-ways.

There three-somes, and eight-somes, and men with three dongs,
There were alien beings with tongues four-feet long.
The island got crowded, there was no more room,
The virgins hearts sank, they told stories of doom.

At long last the crones came down from the clouds,
Thunder-bolts aimed at the reveling crowds,
"We will have no more covers with men of three-masts,
We will have no more covers with barren ballasts.
This sexing must stop, it has ruined our land.
The Pearl River runs green, laced with gold and sea-man."

At the news, the virgins did swoon in relief,
On the Isle of Romantica, they turned to the vampire-in-chief.
"Must we stop playing games, must we button our pants?
"Tell us, oh Lewd One, we await your command."

The vampire pondered, brooded, languished and drank,
His dark eyes were troubled, his dark heart was dank.
Who were these crones who would spoil his fun?
His women, they loved him, all six thousand and one!

He brooded some more, and came up with a plan,
It was a rakish, licentious, and outrageously grand!
He would pleasure these crones with his talented hands,
He would plunder their grottos again and again.
And soon they would know that without his sex-games,
The RWA would be broke, blind, and lame.

He came to the crones, proudly stating his case,
But the crones did not listen, they hrrumphed in his face.
The vampire grew angry, his fangs rigid and thick,
And one crone in the back grew moist, dewy, and slick.

She motioned the vampire to come speak his mind,
Coyly tracing a finger down his muscular thighs.
His anger was dampened in the face of such lust,
But his people they needed his trust, not his thrust.

And so he spoke quietly, his voice deep and inflected:
"We must have our sexing, we're constitutionally protected."
The lone crone, her bust heaved at such passionate speech,
She flashed him a sultry, lash-pinkened buttcheek.

His fangs they grew longer, till they came to his chin.
He struggled to breathe, but this case he must win.
"Weeth cannoth abide by this old-fashioned bullshith,
"Your rulinth amount to Red-thate thenthorthip."

The crones they listened, and nodded, and wrote.
They knew what they'd do, they'd let everyone vote!
The came up with an official signed proclamation,
It was approved with eight yea's and one abstination.
Election Day dawned, and the virgins came out.
They wore their white gloves in case nasties would sprout.

The vampire, the wolf pack, and the Romantica crew,
Stopped humping like bunnies, there was business to do.
The line at the boxes winded down through the town,
It curved past the rainbows, wedding chapels and down…

It curved past the babies, awaiting ma meres,
It curved past Navy SEALS, who were tossing back beers.
It curved down below to the Isle of Temptation,
Then over the tunnel of Confiscated Conception.

The virgins, they voted with pens of pink ink,
The sexings they voted with vibrating sinks!
They came by the thousands, the die had been cast.
And the crones were just happy this buck had been passed.

The moon rose up high when the last vote was placed,
And all in the land went home, they would wait.
The vote-counters came with their abacus oiled,
They were ready to work, count, scribble and toil.

There were chads by the millions, but the counters were grim,
They would finish this job, the money-men counted on them!
And finally the ballots were all marked and noted,
The head vote-counter came to the crones, and he quoted:
"Ten thousand and three for the ladies in white,"
"Ten thousand and three for the creatures of night."
He scurried away, he now could relax,
The crones turned red-faced. The cursed buck was back!

"A tie!" they all muttered, "It cannot be true!"
"We're purveyors of love, not scrawlers of screw!"
they paced and they thought, and they thought, and they paced,
The numbers were saying not all liked love chaste.

Night turned to day, and day turned to night,
Weeks passed to months, with no end in sight.
Finally the crones, they threw up their hands.
The only solution: divide up the land.
So they drew a long line in permanent ink,
The virgins would keep the right, I would think.
The sexings would keep to the far, far, far left.
The crew in the middle rode both sides of the mess.

The crones looked at each other, tired smiles on their faces,
They had done the right thing, a coup pas deux graces!
All over the land, there was clapping and cheers,
The Scotsman chopped lumber, the SEALS sang in their beers.

But on the Isle of Romantica, the vampire was gruff,
For his women were surly, chaffened, and rough.
He was tired of the sexing, his staff was all spent,
He needed a break, his staff had a dent.

And so with a long last look at his peoples,
He climbed to the fence, climbed over the steeples,
Exhausted he fell on the pure driven snow.
24/7 sexing had taken its toll.

The virgins had babies, saved puppies, and more,
The battle was over, their chastity secure.
The sexings were gone from the Island of Love,
When the songbirds returned, .they removed their white gloves.
The cowboys were smiling, and bucking their steer,
The amnesiac bride wasn't sure of the year.
The endings were happy, their commitments untested,
Each night they sang songs, went home unmolested.

Until one hot day, a lone miss, she went strolling,
She found the dark lord, in the hills green and rolling,
Her eyes were drawn to the magnificent beast,
But the man was not moving, he was dead -- or asleep.

She gnawed at her lip with her teeth pearly white,
He was so different, this bad boy of night.
She thought to wake him, she thought to faint like a stone,
Instead, she cooled herself in the pond, naked, alone.

She made loud splashes, sounds to waken the dead,
But alas, the dark lord would not stir from his bed.
Finally, she rose, a nymph naked, resplendent,
She walked to the lord, globes swaying like pendants.
She poked a slim foot at the bulge in his pants,
He still did not stir, So she started to dance.
She swayed and she grinded, lower and lower,
Until they were touching, his flame and her flower.

His dark eyes flew open, his body awake.
He looked over her body, he studied her face.
She waited, heart trembling, her deflowering was near,
But he moved far away, his hands trembling in fear.

"What do you want?" he asked of the lass.
"I want what you'll give me," she said, full of sass.
"Who are you?" he asked, his eyes full of fright
"I'm the one that you seek, that you dream of at night."
"You know of my dreams?" he said with a sigh.
"I'm a mystic, a seer, a healer of scry.
Now service me, captive, I'm to be your love slave."
He blinked, and his rod shrunk six sizes that day.

Her slumberous gaze took in his size,
This was no dark lord, this was no prize.
"This canna be," she cried, stamping her foot.
"I'm a chaste, vestal virgin, my loins are in heat."

She reached out a hand to encourage his root,
She was untutored in love, but her mind was astute.
The skin was velvet, a massive love gland.
Imagine her surprise when it came off in her hand!

She screamed and she cried, for the lost sweet release.
"What is this, you've been faking, you're wearing a piece?"
His eyes filled with tears, his dark secret exposed.
His bad boy adventures, a chapter now closed.

"You had us fooled with your mighty appendage,"
"It wasn't a lie, my trunk was stupendous."
"So what is this wood that fell from your lap?"
"The wolfies that came in? They carried the clap…"