After decades of good, bad or middling,
Probably mostly bad, yet touching,
Heterosexual sex, middle-aged farts
Can let their inner homo flare up,
As in this Friendly Lounge exchange,
“You fucked me good there, buddy.
You shouldn’t have done that.” “Hey,
Take it easy, man. I did use Vaseline.”
“No, you didn’t, not this time, you didn’t.”
More often, the bonhomie is straight
Forward piggish, as when the Lebanese
Weathercaster appears. “I bet her poop
Smells just like curry!” “Ah, that’s nasty!”
“I’m into lots of weird shit, but I’m not
Into poop. I’m sorry! I’m just not.” “Hey,
I’ll give her a good smell test. Hummm,
You’re right, it does smell like curry.”
Then tick local, national and international
Murders and rapes, targeted or random,
Nearly all done by tailed humans, of course,
Then Oscar Pistorius, that double amputee
Olympics runner who just shot his girlfriend
Four times, through a bathroom door. “What
A waste of good pussy! How can you get mad
At something like that? She’s too good looking.”
Scanning this dim dive, you’ll see
A sad sack bunch of well-pickled
Priapic corpses not yet interred.
With pricks, they’ve erected skyticklers,
Defended motherlands against their kind
And bored their way across this globe.
“I think I’m about done. I’m fucked up!”
“That’s what you said yesterday.” “Hey,
I’m sorry to be a drunk.” “Hey, I’m also
A stinking lush, but I’m no alcoholic!”
Suddenly a live female walks in,
Changing the room’s static and even
Brightening each poor boy’s outlook.
Each cadaver’s tongue felt fresher.
Behave, children, for your teacher,
Whatever her name is, is here.