Word Stew for the Hungry Masses

You test me and test me,
And tease me with kisses:
Butterfly kisses: eyelashes a-fluttering,
Eskimo kisses: chapped nose, rubbing chapped nose,
Chaste kisses: lips dry and unappealing,
And Sensual kisses: moist and inviting,
Slick and arousing, I love holding
Your face and rubbing tongues
As we press together our
Small fleshy pillows, your lips
Taste like your dinner, I ate
Myself out tonight, so that’s why
I already taste like quim.

How don’t I know what you do,
Walking on your ass-raising heels,
A glance over your shoulder as you
Shut the door, go on now, change
Into something more comfortable,
Whatever that something will be,
I’ll just lay here, patiently, until
You return, heels discarded, legs
Unwrapped of nylon and garter,
Naked, it seems, but look!
You’ve dressed-up your insides tonight,
And that certainly is a nice pressurized
Canister of dried, fruity delights
You’ve got between your legs, isn’t it?

If I had your pussy,
I’d put it on my penis,
I’d put it where my mouth lives,
I’d put it in your hole,
If I had your tongue to taste,
I’d lick it ‘till it’s flaccid,
I’d jerk it ‘till it shot loads,
I’d gobble down your seed:
Oh. I meant your dick.
Tongues don’t make sperms.

The problem with your attitude is the attitude you have,
Your big, white, fucking pickup truck,
Is big and white and sad,
The whole world knows you compensate,
For what you wish you had,
But the world is wide, and lacks insight:
Your dick’s of soup can size,
And second only to your truck,
It truly is your prize,
But having a giant dick doesn’t mean shit when you just came in your underwear, does it?
No, I didn’t think so.

Your thighs are smooth,
Like processed cream,
Your skin is pale and fair,
You’re in the bathtub,
Under suds,
You’re washing pits and hair,
Your fingers drift,
(as fingers do),
To fiddle with your folds,
Your lips, they part,
Your eyes, they close,
Your breaths turn quick,
And you explore your cove,
What treasures lie up deep inside?
Your web cam doesn’t show,
You moan so much,
You’re splashing now,
There’s just one thing I know:
There’s nothing cooler than the Internet,
Except maybe robots.
Or pussy.
Pussy’s pretty awesome.

She squealed,
“Enjoy your birthday, Patrick,”
As she popped right out of bed,
Picking hairs out of her pearly teeth,
After giving birthday head,
To spit out spunk that Patrick spooged,
Into a porcelain bowl,
Congratulations!
Now you’re older!
And in bed alone,
Your female counterpart rinses off and heads away to work,
You languish for an hour more,
Then stir, and start to jerk,
There are servers in your future, friend,
To maintain with lines of code,
But that’s a ways away, you see:
Your hand continues to go,
And when you’re done, you’ll spray your shoot into the toilet too,
And as post-coitus shrinks your bone,
It’s lonely in your house, alone,
Happy Birthday to you.

Happy birthday, friend Shayna!
Happy Birthday, friend Pete!
Both born on the same day,
(Although not in the street)
But with your Mom’s feet in stirrups!
Pow! What a surprise!
It’s September 23rd, the first day you’re alive!
Now screaming!
Now wailing!
Fast-forward many years!
You’re gross in the desert!
There’s filth in your ears!
Look at you: you’re all grown,
All sorts of counter-culture,
Now think back to those months that you lived in your mother,
Where did that time go?
Tell me, what did you do?
When you swam like a fish in Mom’s placental goo,
But hey, never you mind,
You grew up!
You made good!
Now get drunk and get fucked like adult people do!
Have a happier birthday than the birthday before,
Three loud cheers to you two,
And future birthdays galore!

You were wiggling,
Naked lady friend,
Like you wanted to get away,
Or were hoping I would hit a certain spot inside you,
So I let you scramble beneath me,
Repositioned myself as soon as I was out,
And there I am back in,
You go off: writhing and moaning,
Calling out my name,
So I go,
“You like that, baby?
You like my big Jew dick inside of you?”
It seems you do.

If I was a monster,
My teeth would be sharp,
I’d be ten feet tall,
Or real small (just like Garp),
My fingers would be spindly,
My nails: raptor’s talons,
My feet would be fleet,
With breath stank like a felon’s,
If that felon’s bunkmate was burly,
And held him down with force,
Hands holding like vices,
Hips pumping, of course,
Then unloading betwixt the unwillingest lips,
That’s how my breath would smell,
But it doesn’t, you see:
For I am no monster,
Not going to hell,
I’m not ten feet tall,
Nor small like John Irving,
My fingers are normal,
My nails: unassuming,
My feet are just feet!
And my breath is not stank as I so delicately greet,
The lovely young lady who’ll gnaw on my meat,
Sometime after this dinner of saurkraut and beets,
A romantical meal of extraordinary feats!
But oh! I’m digressing with unbound conceit!
I am not a monster,
I am not, you’ll see,
Now be sweet and quiet,
I’m taking this key,
You’ll stay bound and gagged ‘till our next sodomy.