John Whitworth: The Complaint of Poor Paris

The Complaint of Poor Paris

I’m so cute and so pretty, there’s none in the city
As winsome and witty as I am.
I’m the toast of tall Troy, sex plus passion and poise,
I’m the best of the boys of old Priam.

No, I’m not like the others, my forty-nine brothers
Who call me my mother’s wee poppet.
They’re so horrid and hairy, they act very scary
And say I’m a fairy-tale moppet.

So when Aphrodite, so fey and so flighty,
Discarded her nightie for nudity,
And she gave me a glance, well I fancied my chance
For a spot of romance without crudity.

There was cause for alarm, but with scarcely a qualm
I presented the palm to the flirt.
She was naughty but nice when she gave me advice
On the arts of enticing a skirt.

So it wasn’t a rape; it was Helen’s escape –
She had married an ape from the boonies.
Yet an army of Greeks has been camped here for weeks,
Perverts, criminals, freaks and old loonies!

Yes, it’s always the way, when you’re happy and gay then
You look for a maiden to bed.
If you’re not your own master it ends in disaster.
Much better get plastered instead.


Cool your ardour I beg you. At shaking a leg you
Might count as a regular toff,
But you’re stealing those kisses from somebody’s missus.
I warn you, it pisses him off.