Two’s Company, Three’s Allowed
His mother was Ukrainian.
(Please pass the chili sauce.)
She rode across Romania
but didn’t have a horse.
Are you sure you can trust him ’cause…
(excuse me, I can’t reach
the chili sauce.) … his hand was on
my … (no, that’s horseradish.)
I trusted him until I found
that letter in his jeans,
from Angelique in Martinique
describing lusty scenes.
Hilarious, what kind of fool
would keep the evidence?
Technology is man’s best friend,
gone (!) Snapchat decadence.
Your interest in Pinterest
(technology, you said)
includes three dozen big-boob blondes
and yet, my hair is red.
Exaggeration! Please, you must
not carry on this way.
Least half of those not serious,
did not get past foreplay.
