The time honoured maypole stands on the green,
Dancers twine ribbons betwixt and between.
The band’s playing tunes which are cheerful and old,
Somewhat boring, too, if the truth is told.
Children career from the games to the stalls
Until they are summoned by mothers’ calls
To come to the tables and sit down to eat.
When they’re full to bursting, their day’s complete.
It’s time for goodnights, then it’s off to bed
While the booze comes out for the night ahead.
Ribbon fingers caress the rigid pole.
The sun resigns from its leading role
Becoming upstaged by a sickle moon.
Pan’s leading the band, they’re playing his tune;
Blood runs faster, the senses grow inflamed
As long held urges emerge untamed.
Soon, a storm of passion rumbling,
Inhibitions all start crumbling,
Eager fingers hotly fumbling,
Shaking bodies busy tumbling,
Moral bonds are strained and shearing,
Clothes are quickly disappearing
As the body parts are rearing
With the climax swiftly nearing . . .
This inspiring interaction
Sources seismic satisfaction.
Now Pan carefully packs his pipes away
And brings an end to this Mayday play.