MASTERPIECE #3018

/// He agreed that he’d play Blind-Man’s Buff.
Swore he knew the game— that was a bluff.
Now he stumbles, unseeing
after girls who are fleeing.
(He imagines they’re all in the buff.)

/// The thick blindfold blocks light from his eyes,
but he hears female shrieks, shouts and sighs.
Several girls are held back.
Is it feared they’d attack?
No, they want him to tag only guys.

/// Flailing “blindly” will be his excuse
when he gives girls he catches a “goose.”
When he plays it’s some sort
of a full-contact sport,
and he seeks women, not fast, but loose.

/// He tries tagging them, to no avail;
playing Blind Man’s Buff he’s doomed to fail.
And, behind him, some dame
plays a whole different game:
he’s the “Donkey” where she pins a tail.

/// They all flee from the grasp of this guy.
Scrambling madly, “Don’t touch me!” they cry.
His embrace is rejected;
one would think he’s infected,
and he’s wearing his face mask too high.

/// Couples sprawl on the floor intertwined
while a partner he still cannot find.
Since they’re out of his sight
girls, with ease, can take flight.
Thus for him, it seems, Love isn’t Blind.

/// Soon, he tired; his pursuit grew half-hearted.
Two-by-two, couples paired and departed.
When he pulled off the mask
there were none left to ask
in what room the real orgy had started.

/// This pub’s name is a fun one, of course.
The wood sign shows the rump of a horse.
Balaam’s ass couldn’t parse
a pub called “Horse’s Arse.”
(Rendered speechless, for this ass is hoarse.)