The following is a poem I wrote to voice my opinions on teenage promiscuity. In order to introduce a rather strong subject in the gentlest way possible, I replaced names with the names of Classical gods, godesses and nymphs.
A rather unwholesome pecentage of the Year's population
Has decided that teenage tart is the only way to go.
Please. For the sake of your parents and children,
don't do this to yourselves.
But it gets better. A couple of them even have children to think of.
Cupid and Psyche like to make a particular showcase of their happily-in-love status.
Or not? For behold, the cheeky Cupid has pissed his girlfriend off - again.
That's nothing new. But he's not worried:
Soon enough, like he knows, that slut'll come crawling back to him.
And he'll try to slip his hands under her skirt again. And again. We all know what he's after
Except for simple Psyche, who still believes in true love.
Oh, look, here comes the chlamydia-riddled Aphrodite,
with Apollo's arrows of disease,, shadowed by a reputation
built on exactly how many guys she's 'been with'.
You're not ashamed? It's not a mark of status, my dear,
and the way you wave these disgusting experiences under everyone's noses
like they make you 'the best' at what you do...is, quite simply, pitiable.
What's that stringent laughter down the corridor? But who else would it be
But my friends Chania and Dercetis, giggling no doubt
from some innuendo one of their friends made: their 'friends', who are all male
And are all drooling idiots of the lowest degree.
Everything's hilarious to these whores. Naturally they have their boyfriends
But they like to keep their options - and their legs - open.
The story's been told far too many times
About how, last summer, feeling hot as the day itself,
Venus (in a relationship with Vulcan) called up Mars
for a 'friendly chat'. Except they got a little too friendly
and shagged on Venus' living-room sofa while her parents were out.
(Needless to say, Vulcan stuck a knife in Mars the following Autumn.)
Everyone knows Narcissus, who, by virtue of being perpetually surrounded by his male friends,
likes to relate to them all the techniques he has tried with various girls.
"Have you ever tried that with a chick?" he bawls across the room
and tells them far-fetched stories of his crazy, action-packed weekend.
Sadly, we all know that Narcissus hasn't had any in years.
Of course, we all have similar passions, that I cannot deny.
It is wrong not to talk of them. But to talk of them so brazenly, with such abandon
- do none of you feel that it cheapens the love act?
Nowadays it seems you will die alone and single if you haven't swived before fifteen:
We have all had our fair share of 'experiences'
But is there really any need to cackle at every damn mention?
And you, lovebirds, who sit and grope what you can when you notice
that the other one doesn't actually want you to
Wouldn't it be a little less awkward if you did these things in private?
And what of you, he who thinks so much of his muscles (and one muscle in particular)
Who insists on telling all about his experience
(or lack thereof).
You've all got the best parts of your lives still to live, why rush the act?
Slow down, I say, and find these out a moment at a time,
like the peeling of an apple, after which
you can taste the sweet fruit of love at last.
(Or, if you really must continue your repulsive and abominable acts,
at least consider that in a legal sense exhibitionism usually results in prosecution,
and underage sex, whether consenting or not, is two years in county jail.)