In the Late Spring of ‘96
I was fumbling blindly, in the back
Seat of your father’s old Datsun
Hatchback, desperately trying to untether
Your boobs from their lacy binding,
Mouths wet and searching, they met
And passed on, hands and fingers
Quest and prod, but your chastity
Will remain intact, you say, “No,
No home runs allowed,” not until
The hours beyond your wedding,
But my dick is hard, baby, and needs
To go somewhere – in these morally lax
And ever-changing times – does
Third base include anal yet?
Word Stew for the Hungry Masses 