… Paul Marsden, who probably strutted and fretted his final hour upon the public stage yesterday, and, with luck, will be heard no more.
To mark his passing from public consciousness, if not from bloggers’ memory, I’ll reprint both his finest piece of sex-verse, “She Came In The Night”, together with my own response, hastily written when a commenter at the Stoa suggested that we should be more impressed by the rhyme scheme than in fact we are.
(It is a great shame that Mr Marsden’s collected poems are no longer available on the web. If anyone ever archived a copy of “Grand Old Man” in particular, please get in touch.)
Dark hair, alive billowing as a trapped kite
Marching forward, confident and right,
Her hips swaying and her red lips tight
Then that smile so devastating in its might,
Tongue rippling across teeth so white.
Breasts rising as I feel the urge to bite.
Eyes stalking its prey, she’s relishing the fight.
Who would mess with this amazing sight?
In awe of womanhood so sexual and bright,
A wondrous sweet smell exacerbates my plight,
Arching her back, stretched to its full height,
I am captured forever, dazzled by feminine light.
As she came in the night.
“She came in the night” —
This erotic poem by Paul Marsden might
Be one to set my dullard’s soul alight,
Thrill my mind and make my world more bright,
Fill my heart with parliamentary verse delight
And end MPs’ collective literary blight
With sexy words that intrigue and excite —
So shall I give this sonnet a big green light?
It’s strongly tempting to remain polite
To change the subject, not be quite forthright,
Refrain from judging it as black or white.
But no, this time I’m going to pick a fight:
The MP should be quite contrite:
The trouble is, his rhymes are shite.