As part of our All Hallows celebration this month, you’ll enjoy our trick or treat features such as today’s special poem: The Lustful Rider with a thousand apologies to Mr. Longfellow. The Lustful Rider is the tale of one of four horsemen that will make an appearance in our trick or treat features this month.
I’ll warn you ahead of time, this is definitely a bit of a raunchy poem, so don’t click on the jump unless your over eighteen and don’t mind a bit of twisted fun with a classic poem.
The Lustful Rider
Listen my readers and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of our lustful rider of Kashmir
On the eighteenth of April, in two thousand oh nine;
Hardly a romance reader alive
Who doesn’t dream of this lustful man so fine.
He said to his women, “If the passion march
By love or destiny from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the every tower as a signal light,–
One if by love, and two if by destiny;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread my charms
Through under-sexed villages and farms,
For the country women to be up and in my arms.”
Then he whispered “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to bed a Charlestown whore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
And alighting on her lush body where she lay
Generals, colonels and first lieutenants, men and women-of-war;
A phantom dip, kiss each breast, near and far
Kissing under the pale moon, tongues spar,
And a huge thick member, that was magnified
By thoughts of thrusting deep inside.
Meanwhile, friends through alley and street
Wanderers and watchers, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he soars
The muster of men at thrusting in their lady’s back doors,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Going about their lustful chores,
Then we climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round us made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where we paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That we could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “Lust is well!”
A moment only we feel the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret thread
Of the lonely belfry and making love with the dead
For suddenly our thoughts bent
On bodies twined far way
Where legs widen to meet hot flesh
A line of couples, thrusting away
Naked bodies from Los Angeles to Marrakesh
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
We tear at each other with lust untried
Stroking hard muscles and soft breasts
We desire to bring each other to the crest.
Now he dips his fingers deep inside
Gazing down at the nipple so near
On opposite sides of the with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked the lustful rider of Kashmir.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! As he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
The moon shining on a pair of buttocks in the night.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of sensation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with passion’s heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into a well-bedded town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into sexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the garden-house windows, empty and bare,
Beckon him with a heated glare,
As if they already stood apart
At the passionate work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in the next town.
He heard the bleating of the mating flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
As lovers twisted and twined in bed
What women would he sate himself in here,
Who’s passion would be lying well-fed,
Pierced by his cock, ridden well front and rear
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the men have come and fled
How the farmers gave their women ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the maids and married ladies down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to for passion’s throws.
So through the night rode lust of Kashmir;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every under-sexed village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of the lustful rider of Kashmir.
-Based on the original The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.