The Rythmn Method

 My aunt Fanny (that’s a pseudonym)

has a wonderful, excellent musical quim.

It’s funny to think she was born that way;

normal except for an orchestral vajayjay.

The midwife first thought that maybe a drum

had somehow got lodged in the newborn's bum

but quickly she saw that it made better sense

that the child had been born with a dulcet tuppence.

Needless to say, her folks hit the roof

when her brothers poked fun at her melodious foof.

Over time, the whole family came to swear by

the pitch-perfect precision of young Fanny's hair pie.

Of course, it’s not really a great superpower

but it can’t hurt to sport a mellifluous flower

though her choirmaster thought it unorthodox

when Fanny sang out of her sweet-sounding box.

At parties we kids would play musical chairs

to the sound of Aunt Fanny's percussive downstairs.

Of course we kids were slow on the uptake

not sensing the sounds all came from her cupcake.

Even now, in old age, it disrupts her bingo

when spontaneous jazz blasts from her bajingo

and gynaecologists can start to feel hinky

when donning earmuffs to examine a minky.

Now when old Fanny walks, you don’t hear her feet.

You hear just a snatch in time to the beat.

If you hear a knock or a soft-sounding bang though,

it may just be Fanny’s sonic fandango.

She likely won't blush or even say ‘pardon'

Just ‘please excuse my loud lady garden’.

Yes, Aunt Fanny sure has a euphonious beaver.

Request a tune, you'll soon be a believer.