After the ball is over,
After the break of morn -
After the dancers' leaving;
After the stars are gone;
Many a heart is aching,
If you could read them all;
Many the hopes that have vanished
After the ball.
(Charles K.Harris, 1891.)
The newspapers tell us that our honeymoon with Morrison is over.
After the dancers' leaving;
After the stars are gone;
Many a heart is aching,
If you could read them all;
Many the hopes that have vanished
After the ball.
(Charles K.Harris, 1891.)
The newspapers tell us that our honeymoon with Morrison is over.
I must admit that this thought had crossed my mind
quite some time ago, when, inflamed with excitement and anticipation after the
glorious nuptials of his ascension, I lifted our new Prime Minister’s nightie
and found a pair of testicles (admittedly small, but perfectly formed).
Our young bride still looks fresh and alluring, tells
us she loves us and whispers coquettishly in our ears, promising to do all the
things our carnal hearts desire, but we know we’ll go home alone with aching
balls.
The promises, the grand gestures, the idealism were
mere foreplay, and the hope of consummation no more than a wet dream.