AYE, THERE’S THE RUB

Freddie the Frotteur, he sure liked his frottage.
He lived in the country, in an old thatch-roofed cottage,
Surrounded by acres and acres of lottage.
He liked his lights dim, preferring low wattage.

Nothing would satisfy Fred save Dry Humpin’.
He’d walk up to ladies and carefully bump ’em.
He’d seek out tight spaces where he’d fit his rump in,
And, one Hallowe’en, even nailed a pumpkin.

Freddie liked mysteries and science fiction,
But when he was jonesing for Frottagy Friction,
He’d ride into town, and with pluperfect diction,
Announce, “Say, you ladies wanna feel my eriction?”

He once rubbed a lady cop: she was not pleased.
She called for backup, and Freddie was seized,
Tossed into prison, in a room without keys,
Where he fills up his mattress with his Frottage Cheese.

And thus endeth Freddie, undone by his Frottage.
No more will he rub on the walls of his cottage,
Surrounded by acres and acres of lottage.
“I’ve been rubbed the wrong way!” is sad Freddie’s mottage.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to the inimitable Velociman, whose post on this strange and perverse topic inspired my fetid little poem.]