I revel in mediocrity, shit gets sticky shitty,
But I am okay with being flamboyantly inept.
For instance I can't get it up,
Soft sideways, a compromise I accept.
It's now usually a monthly thing,
The supply of semen almost a whisper.
I can hear my balls fart empty farts,
I call myself a disenchanted pauper.
Even the orgasm doesn't last very long,
As if it has work to do.
Just a matter of fact feeling,
I settle for the penile ahchoo.
And it doesn't take much as such,
Just tits after the opening movie credits.
My consolation the plots are too thin anyways,
Can't say I'm the king of premature misfits.
That's alright I think, at least I'm alive,
Shit! I might be brought out dead instead.
Then, who would have these burdens,
Of the thoughts inside this heedless head?
It takes a worried man,
To save the world under controlled condition.
My head is harried, I'm unmarried,
I master the damsel in my masturbation.
Only in my doodle my sperm becomes a noodle,
With which I strangle the strong stranger.
In my blog at least, I can fight and fist,
My way into weirdness or danger.
In real life, the old dreams are cold creams,
That lubricate my anal and finger union.
In this wet season of mangoes, however,
Diarrhea and vomiting are more fun.
But this poverty, it's an impoverished pity,
That my shit sticks to my soul.
Or this atheism, the lifelessly logical,
That constantly dries up my asshole.
The abject squalor is my comfort,
The wretched filth surrounds and defines me.
Free from the monotony of rote and routines,
Happy as a vicarious hippie.
I scratch my balls, answer nature's calls,
Introspect the contradictions at the core.
Anything else might be overreaching my bed,
I just want to sleep some more.
