Standing in your garden.
Trousers round his ankles.
Looking for a boobie-treat,
To help grease-up his axle.

Peeping in his Peepers hat.
Getting hot and bossy.
Been roasting for an hour or so,
His meat’s now hot and glossy.

Fluffy soft with bright-white shine,
The peeping-beard hangs lightly,
What a shame his pubic mane,
Is scrawny and unsightly.

With secret peeps,
He licks his lips,
At thoughts of secret peering time.
Our peeping gnome,
Is quite at home,
When staring at your washing line.

From behind a bush,
He’s in no rush
To cover up his tiny tush.
If only he,
Could climb a tree,
His Gnome bell-end would blush.

With such un-nerve, that hand-made-perve,
Adjusts his moulded cock,
When he’s in view, please form a queue,
And start your Peeping mock.
By whipping out your big-pink-trout,
(or minge if you’re a girl).
Our dirty peeper, will seem less neater,
Tossing his “Hazelnut Swirl”.


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