A Slow Day at Work

In this marvellous review of a book about The Daily Mail's editor Paul Dacre, Andrew O'Hagan begins by probing deeply into the origins of the C word.
"Apparently, the first known use of the word in English was in 1230, when an Oxford street was named Gropecunt Lane." He goes on to describe the dirty editorial and vernacular habits of said editor. I was left behind, staring at the words Gropecunt Lane.
Gold.

I had to go to work but those two words kept coming back like, I dunno, head lice or something. I messaged a friend who was laid up with a mysterious groin strain injury. "In the year 1230, an Oxford street was named Gropecunt Lane," I wrote, wholly sympathetic to his pain of course. He replied that the lane would probably be a highway or even an autobahn by now, and that he could not stand up and would I get something something from the shops. I scratched my head. It was getting seriously itchy with incoming limericks.

Von Trump and Jake the Peg lamented
That the proposal for an autobahn was demented.
The council motion they lost
(despite their cheques in the post)
and no longer was Gropecunt Lane frequented.

Mmmm. The tone Sarah. Get the tone right. Mixing it up with a pussy-grabbing president, a wobble board enthusiast and a planning committee will not work in a decent poem.
Someone came into the shop to buy a coffee anyway, so I was distracted from my true calling for about six minutes. They left, clutching their coffees. I watched them dodge the tumbleweed blowing down the main street. It was back to Gropecunt Lane and the memory of head lice.

There was a young woman from Gropecunt Lane
who had a terrible itch in her downstairs mane.
To carry on with her workin'
she hid her lice with a merkin,
and within minutes was back on the streets again.

"Why . is . this . poetry."
Maybe I'm just super intuitive but I could tell from his last message that my poetry could never compete with milk, bread, anti-inflammatories, pain killers, and even the most basic kindness of 'how you going mate?'  Unfortunately I was bored out of my brain by then and reaching peak stupid.

(This one is to be sung in the tune of The Pogues' Dirty Old Town)
I met my love
in the Gropecunt Lane.
Dreamed a cream
in her old canal.
I kissed my girl
on the Gropecunt ground.
Her dirty old gown
did cover up her frown.

At this stage he told me I was off my head, and asked if I was going to the shops anytime soon.
While I was just trying to cheer him up, he was one step away from blocking me.

I would absolutely love it if you contributed a Gropecunt Lane limerick in the comments section down below. Get as filthy as you like. I can always delete it :~)