‘Twas a night of balmy breezes, Sensual and moist, the air itself Awash with thrusting expectation and a breath Which rattled the palm trees. The sea, the surf, The semi-naked delirium of sly bodies. The moment our eyes met I knew That by midnight we’d be ensconced in Slippery passion, And later that night as my hot hands hovered over your Manly and feral chest You closed your eyes in erotic ecstasy and said, ‘I see Ronnie O’ Sullivan is Through to the next round of the snooker’.
A momentary blip, I thought, And as you drew me closer with your Muscular arms And I succumbed to the obviousness that lurked Deep within the moment, I felt a growl of pleasure rise up within you And the following words spilled forth From your sensuous lips: ‘And Mark Selby is up three frames to one In the quarter final’.
I’d seen you in the cocktail bar, All trendier promise and the kind of body That if it were any more buff Would have been that of a buffalo, And our eyes had met in the steamy heat, And I’d felt the exotic wonder that time should deliver A man who made my heart a-quiver Knowing all along it was too good to be true, When I said I wanted to spend the night with you, To which you’d replied, but have you got a long cue? (I’d thought you meant The other kind of queue).
Now here we are in the throes of passion And as I tried to lose myself To the insanity of the moment, That inexorable oblivion Of skin on skin and souls ablaze And the sheer physicality of heavenly bliss, You purred, ‘John Higgins came from a five frame deficit To go in to the semi. It’s just a question of getting that moment of luck. But you have to earn luck, don’t you? Sure, your opponent can miss a shot, But you’ve got to take advantage. Don’t let the moment slip. Foul shot and a miss. Foul shot and a miss. Foul shot and a miss. And then before you know it you’ve reached Some kind of parity with your opponent Sometimes Sometimes Sometimes The pink just wont go in No matter how much you chalk your cue. The pink just wont go in The pink just wont go in Tickets to the final are sixty quid a shot. The pink just wont go in. Oh my god, Ronnie O’Sullivan!
We lay in each other’s arms for a bit And then, quietly, you sing, ‘Snooker loopy nuts are we. Me and him and them and me. We’ll show you what we can do With a load of balls and a snooker cue.
Pot the reds and Screw back For the yellow green brown blue pink and black. Snooker loopy nuts are we We’re all snooker