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.

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