A dozen girls had one young buck
Some of them had to wait.
One more girl into his life snuck
He begged her for a date. 
Friday (his name), such a schmuck,
She said her name was Kate.
She asked the question ‘fuzzy duck?’
And then was his soul mate;
The two of them, they ran amok
Seeking to procreate:
All taboos they did freely buck
Their passion to abate.
But now it was they came unstuck:
Twelve lasses, flaring glares of hate
And each armed with a hockey puck 
Chased all through the estate.
The two fled in a knackered truck
They found outside a gate,
But it slid in some cowshit muck
Into a pile of slate;
And this is how they became stuck
and caught by four, then eight;
And then there was a frightful ruck
That went on until late.
So you can see, it is the suck
To over-interrelate;
And when they come and from it pluck
You with their moods irate,
It can’t be blamed on plain bad luck,
Nor destiny, nor fate:
     It’s just ever so very untidy,
          When the 13th falls for a Friday.

About pendantry

Phlyarologist (part-time) and pendant. Campaigner for action against anthropogenic global warming (AGW) and injustice in all its forms. Humanist, atheist, notoftenpist. Wannabe poet, writer and astronaut.
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