There once was a man who said, “Brooklyn
Was the place I would most want to live in,
But maybe Manhattan,
Is a ship I must man
To make sure the women are sylvan.”
It seems that the man never knew that
The word that he used didn’t mean what
He thought that it should mean:
That women who turned lean
Would be just the ones who could be taught.
He wondered aloud ’bout the rhyming,
How off he could hear was the timing,
And how the poor poet,
Who just couldn’t know it,
Would do best to take up forced miming.
So the man with a bundle of panache
And swigging a bottle with backwash
Wrote out a limerick
In the time of a pinprick
Then cleaned out his maw with some mouthwash:
The best and the worst of the people
Who believed that the top of the steeple
Could hold every paper
As a spindling taper
Are always the kind that will teeple.
“That’s,” as he said, “how you do it.
The slow are the idiots who blew it.
You just take a word,
A word that you’ve heard,
And use it as you honestly knew it.
“A poet is nothing but rotting
Whose life it will come out to nothing
For he hasn’t a clue
How to be true
To the words that he always is knotting.”
Yet this man is much more than just poetry,
As I’d like you to learn how to see.
He’s a man of the flesh,
And likes everything fresh,
Especially his women on Friday.
There once was a time in the morning
When up woke the man without warning
And all he could do
Until he was through
Was all kinds of horning and corning.
Now people may think it is wrong
For a man so embarrassingly strong
To give in to weakness,
With all his uniqueness,
And polish so shiny his dong.
Even you may believe he’s no reason
(That even to think so is treason)
To pleasure himself
Beside the bookshelf
Instead of enjoying the season.
Yet the world’s a deep contradiction
And all men entrapped by addiction,
So we must accept
That a man so adept
Would certainly be focused on friction.
So to thoughts of lithe women he’ll turn,
And his cock will start subtly to burn,
For a woman is just
What he perfectly must
Turn his body around to discern.
And I don’t want you thinking that I
Have my eye finely tuned on the guy
Because he is strange
Or covered with mange
Or yearning perversely to ply.
All I want you to know is I see
That a man who’s so good and gutsy
At doing his work
With his hand or his dirk
Is a man who is no wannabe.
And the women who take the forefront
To lie on their backs and to grunt
Beneath such a god
With such a stiff rod
Will be filled with pure pleasure’s brunt.