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This is a tale of the Marquis du Sade
Who, in place of a heart, had a rock
He had eight throbbing inches to the tip of his rod
Which his wife fondly thought as his cock
He would slide it right in her
With no foreplay at all
Oh, the pain that would sear through her guts!
Said she, "You'll tear up my innards!"
But the man would not stall
For his appetite sated with such
O, His facial contortions
As he came like a flood!
He would groan as he moaned all his breath.
With positions distorted
As her cunt dripped with blood
The Marquisse screamed, now ripped by his breadth
Then he'd take out a whip
How he laughed as he ripped
All the flesh from her pasty behind!
With his newfound erection
He'd take his selection
And fuck her in the hold in his mind!
He would fill her with semen
As the love throes subsided.
If she let out a peep or a sound
He'd scream, "Shut your mouth woman!"
And as such, so degraded,
She would weep silent tears to the ground
(When the Marquis DID catch her,
He would beat her for hours,
Screaming "There is no God! Only Hell!"
With painful discression,
She'd lower her expression
Thinking, "That's where I'll send you, as well")
Oh the tales we could tell of the rack and thumb screws,
And the victems he impaled right through!
(He would sharpen a stick
Like a huge wooden dick
And pin asses together in twos.)
But those little stories
So morbid and gorey,
I shall save for another respite.
Oh, the things we could tell
Of the man who brought hell
To the world. But no... wait 'til next night.
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