(A song stolen from me by Hot Chocolate when they titled their plagiarised cover version, "Emma, Emma Emmeline". At least they had the good grace to nod in my direction by calling themselves Hot Chocolate.  A certainty for Poem of the Week.)

 

I saw your business card and photo in the booth;

It said that you were 21 and that’s the truth;

Your legs were long, your boobs were firm, bum like a peach;

It said you offered services described as “Niche”.

 

But when you opened up the door into your flat

I guess that you were 60, balding, grey and fat;

You led me to the chair that’s in your “surgery”,

My feet strapped in the stirrups like maternity.

 

Oh, Emma, Emma Enema

It’s years since this old git was a sex reveller

Oh, Emma, Emma Enema

Won’t you give a prostate rub to this old pensioner?

 

Oh, Mistress Emma it’s the first time I have been

So please make sure you use a blob of vaseline;

Not sure what to expect today on my first date

And not quite sure of what you mean by “irrigate”.

 

Oh, Emma, Emma Enema

It’s years since this old git was a sex reveller

Oh, Emma, Emma Enema

Won’t you give a prostate rub to this old pensioner?

 

I have to say this isn’t what I did expect

I rather hoped you’d deal with something more erect;

I think I’ve been misled by you, I must confess

I could have got this done free on the NHS.

 

Oh, Emma, Emma Enema

I’m now 200 smackers poorer than before

Oh, Emma, Emma Enema

And still I take my hard-on with me out the door.