Humorous Love Poems 3

Under The Clock

Suited and booted he sat waiting there
Perched on the edge of his seat, restless
He sat watching the great clock hands moving
Slowly as they ticked off the minutes
His palms sweated and his heart pounded
As he waited beneath the great clock face
He asked himself “what was he doing”?
A blind date what was he thinking, madness
He was too old for blind dates far too old
Why did he agree, what would they talk about
He wasn’t young, he wasn’t cool, he was
More Wilson Philips than Wilson Picket
But there she was not too young and lovely
His mouth was dry and he felt a bit faint
“I was terribly nervous about tonight”
She said putting him straight at his ease
She slipped off her coat effortlessly
With an easy grace and elegance
When he took off his coat, he hit his arm
On the wall, hit a woman on the back
And knocked over a lamp, she laughed
Sympathetically and she bad him sit

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Dear Lost And Found

Dear lost and found
Can you please assist?
Lost – one heart
In poor general condition
Broken repeatedly
Repaired shoddily
(Too many times to count)
It is a good heart
Generous in proportion
True and steady
Not of fickle disposition
A trusting heart
A heart given freely
Last possessed by Julie
Heart was last seen
Being trodden underfoot
By previous keeper

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Doctor My Eyes

I’ve had my eyes tested
And I am 20/20
I am not short sighted
Nor long sighted
My eyes are healthy
There is no glaucoma
No floaters
Nor cataracts
My sight is perfect
So why is it
When I look at you
I see an angel
When you are anything but
I asked the optician
Why, with such perfect vision,
Can I not see betrayal?
He told me
That I have perfect vision
Its just rose tinted

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Here, There And Everywhere

It happened on the beach
One afternoon in the sun
It happened in the shower
When the day was done
It happened in the car
Parked in the multistory
It happened on the sofa
Watching Toy Story
It happened on a bench
One night in the park
It happened at the pictures
On the back row in the dark
It happened on an airplane
I’m sure it will again
It happened in a bus shelter
One night in the rain
It happened in a taxi
On the way to Waterloo
I got that empty feeling
Because I’m missing you

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Tunnel Of Self Love

When a narcissist’s riding of
The tunnel of love is planned
He’ll want to sit alone in a car
So he can hold his own hand

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Lost Property Inquiry

“Good morning,
Is that lost property?
I have misplaced some articles
Could you possibly help me?

The last time I had them?
Was on a train to Waterloo
Traveling from Rowland’s Castle
I think it was the 9.22

The items are of particular import,
The first item was my heart,
Which has been returned,
In a state of disrepair, but it’s a start

Other articles include, my dignity,
My self respect, have you seen them at all?
What about my back bone
Or perhaps you have found my balls”

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L For Librarian

I see you differently tonight
Not the bookish librarian
No beige sweater and slacks
No tied back hair
And sensible shoes
Tonight you are no quiet librarian
Tonight you prowl
On four inch heels
Tonight you are the huntress
On the black stockined legs
A lioness in a cocktail dress
Hair flowing like a mane
Who knew what lay beneath?
The shapeless beige
And baggy trousers
A woman hid beneath the drab
A woman with shape and form
Curves and undulations
Look under S for sexy

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Vital Statistics

I don’t want gimcrack
I don’t want a big rack
I don’t mind frumpy
Though I’m not keen on grumpy
She can have an ordinary face
And two left feet and lack any grace
I don’t even care about her age
And her favourite colour can be beige
I don’t care if she wears specs
But I do want a girl with self respect
And inside a beautiful spirit
That’s the type of girl who’ll fit

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My Sweater Girl

Nobody filled a sweater
Quite like my sweater girl
And no one in a poodle skirt
Could match her swing and swirl

Nobody could cut a rug
Like my sweater girl could do
And when it came to necking
She’d be the one for you

It didn’t matter what she wore
She was the cutest by a mile
In PF Fliers and pedal pushers
Or at the hop putting on the style

Nobody filled a sweater
Like my sweater girl could
And if I could go back fifty years
Then I promise you I would

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Mix And Match

If only you could mix and match
To build the perfect girl
It would be great fun
I think I’ll give it a whirl

Bits may be out of proportion
She may look odd I guess
But she will only have eyes for me
And she will only answer yes

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The Most Perfect Woman

If I was able to
Build the perfect one
I would chose Charlie’s legs
And Brenda’s bum
Laura’s breasts
And Eliza’s back 
Annie’s arms
And Connie’s neck
Jenny’s hands
And Sarah’s toes
Cassie’s ears
And Karen’s nose
Maureen’s mouth
And Stephanie’s grin
Doreen’s hair
And Patricia’s skin
Charlotte’s voice
And Debbie’s eyes
Joanne’s teeth
And Susan’s thighs
Emma’s grace
And Christine’s hips
Diane’s heart
And Penny’s lips

If this was something
That I could do
She would still not
Be as good as you

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We Were Like A Kit

We were like a kit
Unassembled and incomplete
A loose collection of parts
But we were just parts
And the lesser for it
But there was no manual
There were no instructions
To say which part fitted which
So there were mistakes
Part A did not fit part Z
And part B did not connect with H
But then one Humorous Love Poems Day
Part A was in proximity with B
And quite effortlessly
Joined into one entity
And became us

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In The Eye of the Beholder

Her eyes of velvet hazel brown
Looked at me and then look down
Her nose twitched and she bit her lip
Then she composed herself and took a sip
She fought to suppress it for a while
Then her full lips broke into a smile
I stared at the curvaciousness in her gown
Then her brow furrowed into a frown
Under my gaze her lashes fluttered nervously
her eyebrows raised disapprovingly
as I looked at her figure shamelessly
Picturing her body naked before me
The skin of her cheeks flushed deep red
Then proudly she held up her head
She flicks the brunette strands of hair
Off her face as I stand and stare
I love the beautiful things in life
So what’s wrong with ogling my own wife

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There’s Something About A Cellist

There’s something about a cellist
That really turns me on
A female cellist obviously
In a low cut evening dress
Of emerald green velvet
The great polished instrument
Between her long black stockin'ed legs
Her long brunette hair
Dancing across her naked shoulders
Brushing her alabaster skin
In frantic rhythm to her playing
Sat in the lavish surroundings
Of a grand hotel lobby
A pale willowy figure called Deidre
Purposefully thrashing out a piece by Elgar
Or music to slash your wrists by
To a disinterested audience
OK its not cellists that turns me on
But there’s something about Deidre
That definitely does
When she’s playing the cello

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