As I approached her sailing yacht, she waved to me and beckoned,
I could see her blue bikini, so motored over in a second.
As I handed her the painter, I’m pretty sure she sighed.
She kissed me in my dinghy, a truth she’s since denied.
I climbed aboard and thanked her as she offered me a drink.
I said I liked her sailboat, she said she liked my dink,
And she said she liked my Johnson because I didn’t have to row,
So I kissed her in her cockpit and we went down below.
She claims that all she said was my frayed painter needed whipping,
I mistook for something kinky, must be the drink that I was sipping.
All this talk I took for naughty, she later claimed was clean and pure.
She said she’d like her scuppers cleaned, did not sound at all demure.
So I did what any sailor’d do with a miss who’s acting willing,
When suddenly she turned on me, a wind that was quite chilling.
To escape from her I raced above to my dink awaiting there.
She suddenly appeared on deck and shot at me a flare.
Good luck was there; she missed me, but put a hole into my dink.
Gave one pull upon my Johnson, as my dink began to sink,
The engine roared, I started off, I swear, Judge, this is true:
I’d have made it back to safety, if I’d released the painter, too.
(As it turns out, double entendres really only have one meaning.)