I stir my rod, it's my god,
It's limp almost the entire year.
Sometimes at a slant angle it revives,
I milk it fondly singing "my dear".
Well I am almost half a hundred years,
The springs aren't spruce anymore.
Plus I don't have money,
To practice love with a whore.
The ejaculate leaks like a fugitive,
Furtive and watery in guile.
I'm sure I can't be a father,
Even if I fucked every girl in a mile.
Ah that dream, and many manly dreams,
I am a tiger orgasmic at heart.
But eviscerated and refractive the tiger,
The head a balloon with my fart.
