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Ballad of Eskimo Nell - adults only
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Here is a epic Pome. Courtesy of Dead Weird Larry:
The Ballad of Eskimo Nell
When a man grows old and his balls grow cold and the end of his knob turns
blue.
When it's bent in the middle like a one-string fiddle, he can tell a yarn or
two.
So find me a seat and stand me a drink and a tale I'll to you tell.
Of Deadeye Dick and Mexico Pete, and the gentle Eskimo Nell.
Now when Deadeye Dick and Mexico Pete go forth in search of fun,
It's usually Dick who wields his prick and Mexico Pete the gun.
And when Deadeye Dick and Mexico Pete are pissed off sore and mad,
It's usually cunt that bears the brunt, so the shootin' ain't so bad
Now Deadeye Dick and Mexico Pete had been hunting in Deadman's Creek,
And they'd had no luck in the way of a fuck for nigh on half a week.
Just a moose or two, and a caribou, and a bison cow or so,
And for Deadeye Dick with his kingly prick this fucking was mighty slow.
So do or dare this horny pair set out for the Rio Grande,
Deadeye Dick with his muscular prick, and Pete with his gun in his hand.
They blazed a long and randy trail, and no man in their path withstood,
And many a bride who was hubby's pride knew pregnant widowhood.
They made the stand of the Rio Grande at the height of a blazing noon,
And to slake their thirst and do their worst they sought Black Mike's Saloon.
And as the swing doors opened wide, both prick and gun flashed free,
"Accordin' to sex, you bleedin' wrecks, you drinks or fucks with me!"
They'd heard ofthe prick called Deadeye Dick from the Horn to Panama,
And with nothing worse than a muttered curse the cowhands lined up at the bar.
The women too his playful ways knew down on the Rio Grande,
And forty whores took down their drawers at Deadeye Dick's command.
They saw the finger of Mexico Pete twitch on the trigger grip,
'Twas death to wait, at a fearful rate those whores began to strip.
And Deadeye Dick was breathing quick with lecherous snorts and grunts,
As forty arses were bared to view, to say nothing of forty cunts.
Now forty arses and forty cunts, you'll see if you use your wits,
And rattle a bit of arithmetic--that's likewise eighty tits.
And eighty tits is a gladsome sight for a man with a raging stand,
They may be rare in Berkeley Square, but not on the Rio Grande.
Our Deadeye Dick, he fucks 'em quick, and he backed and took a run,
And made a dart at the nearest tart and scored a bull in one.
Then down he bore to the sawdust floor and fucked her deep and fine,
And though she grinned it put the wind up the other thirty-nine.
Our Deadeye Dick, he fucks 'em quick, and flinging the first aside,
He was astride for his second ride, when the swing doors opened wide.
And into that hall of sin and vice--into that harlot's hell,
Strode a gentle maid who was unafraid, and her name was Eskimo Nell.
Our Deadeye Dick, he fucks'em quick, and he humped another pair,
He doubled his stroke and a tart's twat broke while our Nell took a table and
chair.
Dick took a fifth and then a sixth as quick as a coyote's wink,
And fucked four more by the backroom door while Nell got herself a drink.
Our Deadeye Dick who fucks 'em quick was well into twenty-two,
When Eskimo Nell let out a yell and said to him "Hey...You!"
The hefty lout, he turned about, both knob and face were red,
With a single flick of his mighty prick, the tart flew over his head.
But Eskimo Nell, she stood it well and looked him in the eyes,
With utmost scorn she glimpsed the horn that rose from his hairy thighs.
She blew a puff from her cirarette onto his steaming knob,
And so utterly beat was Mexico Pete, he forgot to do his job.
It was Eskimo Nell who broke the spell in accents calm and cool,
"You cunt struck shrimp of a Yankee pimp, do you call that thing a tool?
If this town here can't wear this down," she sneered to the cowering whores,
"There's one little cunt that can do the stunt--It's Eskimo Nell's, not
yours."
Deadeye Dick was still breathinq quick, with lecherous snort and grunt,
He pawed like a mule and fingered his tool as he thought of Nellie's cunt.
"I've heard of tarts who like to boast, but there's eighteen yet to be laid."
Dick fucked them all from wall to wall, and turned to the Eskimo maid.
She shed her garments one by one with an air of conscious pride,
Till at last she stood in her womanhood and they saw the great divide.
She laid right down on the table top where someone had left a glass,
With a twitch of her tits she crushed it to bits between the cheeks of her
ass.
She bent her knees with supple ease and opened her legs apart,
With a final nod to the randy sod, she gave him the cue to start.
But Deadeye Dick with his king of a prick prepared to take his time,
For girls like this were fucking bliss, so he staged a pantomime.
He winked his arsehole in and out and made his balls inflate
Until they looked like granite knobs on top of a garden gate.
He rubbed his foreskin up and down, his knob increased in size,
His mighty prick grew twice as thick and almost reached his eyes.
He polished his rod with rum and gob to make it steaming hot,
And to finish the job he sprinkled the knob with the Cayenne pepper pot.
He didn't back and take a run, nor yet a flying leap,
But bent right down and came up from the ground with a steady forward creep.
Black Mike's grew chill and the crowd grew still as Dick moved in for his
plunder,
And everyone knew that this was a screw to put Nell six feet under.
The Dick took a sight as a gunman might along his mighty tool,
And shoved his lust with a dexterous thrust--calculating firm and cool.
Have you seen the mighty pistons on the giant C.P.R.?
With the punishing force of a thousand horse--you know what pistons are.
Or think you do, but you've yet to learn the awe-inspiring trick,
Of the work that's done on a nonstop run by a man like Deadeye Dick.
But Eskimo Nell was an infidel--she equalled a whole harem,
With the strength in her abdomen and a rock of ages beam.
Amidships a rush she could stand like the flush of a patent water closet.
And she clasped his cock like the Chatwood lock on the National safe deposit.
She lay for a while with a subtle smile while the grip of her cunt grew
keener.
Then giving a sigh she sucked him dry with the ease ofa vacuum cleaner.
And now my friend, as we come to the end of this copulating epic,
The effect on Dick was sudden and quick like and opium anaesthetic.
He slipped to the floor and knew no more, his passions extinct and dead,
He didn't shout as his tool came out--and it was worn to a thread.
Mexico Pete, he sprang to his feet to avenge his friend's affront,
With a fearful jolt he drew his Colt and rammed it up her cunt.
He shoved it up to the trigger grip and fired three and three,
But to his surprise she rolled her eyes and smiled in ecstasy.
She leaped to her feet with a smile so sweet, "Bully," she said, "for you!"
"I might have guessed it's about the best you phoney lechers do.
When next your friend and you intend to sally forth for fun,
Buy Deadeye Dick a sugar stick, and get yourself a bun.
"I'm going back to the frozen North, tothe land where spunk is spunk,
Not a trickling stream of lukewarm cream but a solid frozen chunk!
Back to the land where they understand what it means to fornicate,
Where even the dead sleep two in a bed and the infants copulate.
"Back to the land of the mighty stand where the nights are six months long,
Where the polar bear whanks off in his lair, That's where they'll sing this
song.
"They'll tell this tale on the Arctic trail where the nights are sixty below,
Where it's so damn cold, French letters are sold wrapped in a ball of snow.
In the valley of death with bated breath it's there we'll sing it too,
Where the skeletons rattle in sexual battle, and the moldering corpses screw!"
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