This is a series of poems about Freddie Bloor and some of his friends. Many thanks to Sarah Hartwell Jshartwell@aol.com for supplying virtually all of it.
I've replaced my original version of this with a somewhat better one that Sarah supplied.
This is the tale of young Freddie Bloor, whose sexual equipment got jammed in a door. The firemen arrived on the scene, double quick But alas were too late to save poor Freddie's dick. By the time they freed him he didn't feel well for his private parts were mangled to hell. They rushed him to hospital, the ambulance flew but when they arrived there was nowt they could do. What a sad blow for Fred, condemned without choice, to a life with no sex and a high squeaky voice, But lucky for Fred, so he wouldn't feel a fool some bright spark suggested a bionic tool. A bright new electric one made out of brass, though the batteries would have to be kept up his ass. So newly equipped and after a rest, Fred thought he would put his new tool to the test. Finding a woman, the nearest one handy, he piled her with drink and made her feel randy. The girl without waiting, put her hand in his flies, when she felt what was there gave a cry of surprise. "That's my bionic chopper, now let's have some fun!", "Cor blimey!", she said, "It feels like a gun!" They both stripped off quick and Fred entered her fast, and he turned up the speed knob and gave her full blast. They clutched tight to each other as Fred's dick shook some more, then they shook off the bed and rolled onto the floor. Now the part hotted up and they started to choke as the air in the room became filled with blue smoke. With a bang Fred's left bollock shot up in the air and his other went plonkety plonk down the stair. So back for repair went poor Fred, full of woe, was this how his sex life was destined to go? A return to the doctor at the end of each shag with his prick in his pocket and his balls in a bag. But they fixed young Fred up, made him manly again, and they helped out the batteries with a flex for the main, So if the batteries run out, it's still quite alright, Cos he's now got a mains lead and can go it all night, And if he can't get a girl, lucky Fred doesn't cry, cos he's now AC/DC and can go with a guy.
Sarah writes: "This is the Freddie Bloor poem (found early 1980s) which made me look for the first epic."
This is more of the tale of young Freddie Bloor Whose sexual apparatus got lopped off by a door, With his new bionic tool, young Fred got a life, And in the fullness of time he had taken a wife. Fred gave her a present and pledged her his soul, And gave her the bionic dick's remote control, But alas for them both, Fred could not stay true, Though he blamed his affairs on his bionic tool, When he went out to parties and girls gave him a glance, Bionic-tooled Fred couldn't pass up the chance, And within a few months of being decently wedded Fred had lost count of the women he'd bedded. At home his poor wife grew increasingly frantic As she tried to put up with Fred's sexual antics, As Fred thrust away with his multi-speed dick, She wanted revenge and she wanted it quick. So one day she followed Fred to his love nest, Where he was bonking his latest conquest. Armed with his bionic dick's remote control, She twiddled the dial and turned it to full. Like a great power drill the tool started to turn At 500 rpm and caused friction burns, The girl started screaming, eyes crossed in amazement, As Fred's tool rotated and throbbed and went crazy. Fred tried to control it and tried to go slow, All to no avail as the tip started to glow, It shot him out of her, he crashed into the wall, And hung there spread-eagled, held up by his tool. It drilled into the plaster and then through the brick, While Fred tried in vain to unfasten his dick, Then it ground to a halt, it was embedded right in, And face flat to the wall, Fred started to spin. Just as he grew dizzy, his wife hit 'reverse', At first Fred stopped spinning, but then things grew worse, He shot away backwards, repelled from the wall, By the pulsing and spinning of his mains powered tool; He fell straight through the window and and onto the ground, His tool ripped away with a terrible sound, And after the doctors had patched him up whole, They gave a dick without remote control. The moral of Freddie's tale is clear to all, If you don't want your wife to lead you round by your balls, Then don't shag every willing female you meet - You'll end up dickless like Freddie and out on the street!
This is the only one that isn't from Sarah:
Now this is the story of Fred's girlfriend, Kelly. Punk rocker, pink hair, six foot nine, fat and smelly. But these delicate features all passed Fred straight by, It was another, less subtle, that soon caught his eye. The problem, you see, was the size of her chests. The unfortunate Kelly had uneven breasts. The right one was normal, size 36D. The left one hung down, to way past her knee. But Fred did not ming; there was a glint in his eye. As the unbalanced Kelly lurched carefully by. He walked up beside her, and looking so cool, Said "I'm Fred, good in bed, care to sample my tool?" "My name is Kelly," she said, with a smile, Resting her boob on the ground for a while. She knocked out her pipe on the side of his conk, Said "Let's go to my place, we'll have a quick bonk." They got on the bed and Fred undressed her quick, And turned up the power on his electronic dick. Then grabbing a handful of mammory gland, Wrapped it twice round his neck like a huge rubber band. Kelly meanwhile had nothing to hold. Then she spied Freddy's whopper gleaming purple and gold. With one hand she pushed Freddy flat on his back, Got down on her knees and prepared to attack. But back at the hospital for a quick clean and fix, The nurses had got all the plans in a mix. And the doctor who wired it had made a bad job, So poor Kelly got 10,000 volts through her gob. She gave a sharp cry and jumped back in pain, And her left breast began to stretch from the strain. The whiplash pulled Fred from the bed to a chair, And his face went all purple as he struggled for air. As poor Fred did writhe with a gurgling sound, Kelly was rather too quick to turn round. And as he was plucked, with great force, from the chair, He grabbed hold of Kelly by her pink spikey hair. On landing, entangled, in a heap on the floor, Fred unwrapped himself fast, and made for the door. Straight down the stairs, out into the street, With his puffed face bright red and his pants round his feet. Yelled "Make no mistake," his voice full of mourning, "That bosom should carry a public health warning!" "From now on I'll stick to my first rule of thumb," "Any more than a handful, and you risk a sprained tongue!"
A shorter, mangled version of the previous one.
We've all heard the tales of young Freddie Bloor, Who suffered a dreadful mishap with a door, In his prime one had severed poor Freddie Bloor's prick, But medical insurance bought a bionic dick. There was a drawback with batteries - they quickly expired, So they gave him a flex, to the mains he was wired, But becoming entangled in ten feet of flex, Gave a new meaning to the motto 'safe sex'. A punk rocker called Kelly took 10,000 volts, While giving Fred head, and she got quite a jolt. He blasted Kit into orbit when his prosthetic exploded, She had a bionic pussy and Fred's dick overloaded. Now a small nuclear battery built into his dick, Seems the ideal solution and powers his prick, But sadly there is one small drawback for Fred, Safe sex means wearing a condom made of lead!
This is the tale of Fred Bloor's girlfriend Kit, Who had silicon implants and a bionic clit, Kit's boyfriends all risked a most messy castration, Organs ground to a pulp by excessive vibration, As right in the midst of their sexual frolics Kit's luckless partners got trapped by their bollocks, With their dicks mauled and mashed and turned into spam, And their bollocks resembling balls of chopped ham, Kit's organ grinder left their manhoods all mangled, Like half-chewed frankfurters, with catsup, they dangled, When her bionic pussy reached its thundering orgasm And chomped off their choppers as it went into wild spasms. Then one night at a disco she met a young chap called Fred, Whose mains-powered tool was more robust in bed, They headed straight for the bedroom, they knew what to do, As they plugged themselves in, and the sparks really flew. The pace became frantic with no hazard of gelding, Though the heat generated caused grave danger of welding, But Kit's pulsing pussy made Fred short-circuit that night. And in the deep throes of their passion the mattress ignited. Well out of control, the heat melted circuits and wires, Their pubic hair singed, hissed and and smoked, and caught fire, Would this happen each time Fred and Kit wanted a poke - Pubes and mattress on fire and their room full of smoke? Now the circuits were melting and screws had worked loose, As through their mains flexes they drew so much juice, That all through the city the lights dimmed and died, As Fred and Kit's bonking overloaded electric supplies. First the step-up transformers at the power sub-stations, Went critical, melted; then they burnt out the generators, The doctors had failed to fit Fred's dick with a fuse, So now all round the city, power lines arced and blew. Fred's tool whined and went into critical overload, Grew red hot, then white hot before it finally exploded, His metal balls hit the ceiling and bounced off the wall, And out through the roof went his jet-propelled tool, Alas, it was welded to Kit's bionic clit, And so the poor woman blasted off into orbit. Fred's sex drive was in ashes and his tool circled Mars, While his balls had blown away half of his ass; And the only woman able to sustain Fred's bionic pace, Was still riding his dick as she floated through space. So back to the hospital drove poor Freddie Bloor To be stitched back together and supplied with a fuse.