A four line poem

Pompa's trying to keep it clean
He likes to keep folks happy
Especially the ladies here
He's such a polite chappy.

But I'm not nice like Pompa
I like a bit of smut
Especially in the evening
When the drapes are shut.

Charmer Pompa is for sure
A true gentleman as well
His wit and humour work to lure
Female GNs under his spell

Max Miller was a funny man
Known as the Cheeky Chappy
He used to recite risque rhymes
It kept his audience happy.

Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden
They were so happy and jolly
I wonder how they would have felt
If all the leaves had been holly.

(My favourite Max Miller rhyme).

I'm a happy, chappy, try never to mope
but keeping it clean is a bit of a strain
and Ladies for you, with effort I'll cope.
Of wickedness and smut I will abstain

Wickedness can sometimes be witty
And fill us all with great glee
So write us another cute ditty
And let's have a good teeheehee

However, as you say, and do confer
that to be cheeky and even risqué
is what the majority would prefer
I can do filthy, just say.

Clean up our rhymes we say each day
And start off meaning well
Of smut and sex no more we'll say
But time alone wil tell......

Over to you pompa

My wit has failed, whatever I do
Tit, bum, piddle and poo
none of them can I rhyme
must do better next time

Can't raise a laugh
or even a smirk
maybe tomorrow
my mojo will work

Pompa, tomorrow your mojo will shine,
And your middle name will be witty,
After a good sleep, you`ll see a sign,
It`ll lead you straight to Sin City.

On this morning cold and crisp
our pussy heads out whiskers a flicker
how I wish I was him on days like this
oh why don't I have an inbuilt furry knicker

Furry knickers would itch and tickle
You wouldn't be sitting still
You'd get in a right awful pickle
With dirty looks that could kill

An Aussie named Kenny McGroo
Took a shot at a big kangaroo.
The roo shouted 'Ouch, you've punctured me pouch
And now the wind's blowing right through'.

This is more of a limerick than a poem but it will do for now.

Can this thread have really died ?
when so many poets tried and tried
to rhyme their words for our pleasure
so what we've read , we must treasure

Nasty wind is on its way
Now I cant go out to play
Oh how I wish, it would stop
So I can nip out, to the shop

Our fence is mended, hip hurray
And it hasn't cost a penny
Which really is a god job, as
We haven't got that many!

The fence is strong
but is it wrong
that Sunday lunch
means old dobbin has gone

I swear it wasn't salami
That we ate for Sunday lunch,
But if I see old Dobbin
Shall I say he's next week's brunch?

Dangerously lives that hairy one
He's trying hard to be
Just friendly as he rubs his bum
On fence instead of tree

He didn't mean to drive him mad
It really was just fun
Grabbing his hat wasn't so bad
As biting him on the bum

Salami what a waste
along with a good Bordeaux
roast saddle would be far better.
what a great way to go!

Roast saddle is like leather,
I find it all quite tough,
Whatever wine you serve it with
The pommel's just enough

Whereas Dobbin's running free
Kicking heels and braying
No fence can still his spirit
Though he secretly is preying!
Hee haw
Hee haw

A donkey needs to kick his heels
And scratch his bum at will
Unfortunately for Pompa
His fence just fits the bill.

It's Pickle's fence, not mine