There once was a chef from Kent
who knew not how her evening was spent.
With her panties aside
had she hitched up for a ride?
Or was that dampness some other condiment?
There once was a writer of verse
Who had a wish so perverse.
He put pen to paper
And hoped he’d become Satyr,
But what he became was even much worse.
He had hooves, horns, and some hide
Enough to frighten his would-be bride.
When he glanced in the mirror,
He couldn’t have looked any queerer
Even with the nannies by his side.