French Horn

I'm learning the French horn and I love it.

Walking up the semi-detached street and

Knocking on his middle class door.

He smiles a coy smile as young lads do,

When faced with a woman like me.

I've dressed to impress, my tits on show,

They jiggle as I play the US Anthem.

'Was that OK?' I ask, taking the

Horn from my lips with a kiss.

'Oh yes,' he says, 'Very good, very good.'

I smile and put the horn back to my lips.

He's a very good teacher.

I like his style.

And I like the house full of books and antique rugs.

I could live here with my horn tutor one day,

Once we bumped his parents off.

And I can hear his mother in the kitchen,

Banging pans and chatting to their pet.

She sniffs when she sees me.

I sniff back.

And horn tutor blushes to his blond roots,

When I tell him I want to learn love songs.

'How's my embouchure this evening?' I ask.

When I leave I'm frozen in my shortest skirt,

But thoughts of French kisses warm me,

As I carry my case back to the high rise and

Put on my nightie and play Frere Jacques very loud.