That faulty creation of Prometheus
When half-asleep; that potbellied, swarthy,
Snub-nosed, squinty-eyed, liver-lipped and
Misshapen of head, short-armed, bandy-legg’d,
Dwarifsh man, portentous monstrosity.
Aesop, I calleth ’on thee, fabulist!
There once was a beautiful, elegant pen, a black swan who swam around the lush blue waters of the pond. The swan would swoon whenever a hot, studly ruddy-billed cob would trumpet. She was always there to fuck the shit out of his cock. She absolutely fucking loved fucking. Even the ugliest of cobs, who emboldening themselves from their depths of their shyness, would let out a limping trumpet, the pen would swim to him and present her beautiful cunt to the ugly swan to fuck. Then one day, a striking cob trumpeted to her. She was in awe of his ruddy-bill and midnight plumage. She knew this was the cob she would make a nest with. They built their mound with yellow iris, cattails, hyssops, watercress, lilies, and their own molted feathers and down. This was the most welcoming and motherly nest the pen had ever seen along the banks of her pond. She laid her clutch of eggs in her nest, longingly awaiting her motherhood. Her cob swam away one night and she wondered where he had gone. She heard his distinctive trumpet and swam into the reeds to see for herself if her cob was being adulterous with other pen. She was flabbergasted when she saw her manly cob being fucked by another cob. She honked her displeasure with her mate and his cob. The elderly cob flapped his wings and honked at her with wrath in his trumpet. Frightened, she fled back to the safety of her nest and the warmth of her clutch of eggs. Her mate returned to the nest with his cob and they drove her, full of violence, away from her clutch of eggs. Alone, she watched her mate and his faggoty old cob rear her cygnets as if they were their own.
The moral of old from the story told: for the trollop, there is never a “happily-ever-after”.
Published on: Jun 2, 2015 @ 18:47