Song Of The Necrophiliac

I donít care if theyíre young or old
As long as they are stiff. And cold.
I never cause them any pain,
And if I do, they donít complain.
They lie immobile on the slab,
I climb on top and have a grab,
Then when Iíve roused myself a bit,
I get stuck in, a perfect fit
Most of the time.

I was lucky to get this job,
Although it isnít popular,
No bonus, no company car,
You get one or two little perks,
It isnít hard or tiring work,
And even when youíre on your own
Youíre never really quite alone.
Stop when you like and have a chat,
They never shout or answer back,
And when the doctorís not about,
And the chief morticianís gone out,
I find one thatís been kept on ice,
Give her the works, and oh, thatís nice,
Much better than a living girl.
I can do anything I please,
Kiss her lips, give her tits a squeeze,
Dog fashion or one up the back,
Right in her mouth or in her crack,
Lying on top or by her side,
Whichever way, Iím satisfied.
Between here and the horsehead nebula
Thereís nothing in this universe like necrophilia.

I might pack it in eventually though;
After a while itís dead boring.

[The above was first published in Scatoligicus Eroticum, February 1993.]

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