Word Stew for the Hungry Masses

My penis ain’t the meanest,
But my dick is plenty mean,
It is a tool of discipline,
To tame your quivering seam,
You act like it’s a monstrous thing:
Veiny, red, and huge,
But I know the truth ’bout my ding,
And huge just isn’t true,
It’s neat, though, look!
It flops about, like it’s a gasping fish,
But you’re the fish. Heh.
I’m supposed to call it pussy.

Or any sort of broth, for that matter.

I told you that I love you, Baby,
A dozen times or more,
I mean, not everyone receives the gift of my seed,
I usually collect it in a little bag,
Tie the end off, and slip it into my pocket
So I can take it home,
That’s how I know you won’t make it into tea.

Sweets for the Sweet

I’m sitting by the telephone,
I wait for you to call,
I’m wondering if you saw me
When we both were at the mall,
I followed you from Benetton,
To the food court Auntie Anne’s,
I hid behind a Cinnabon,
I want to touch your hair,
I peeked around the kiosk,
But you were nearly there,
As you approached: I crouched,
I slid, around that kiosk’s corner,
And when I’d done all that I did,
I sprinted for new cover,
I watched you eat your snack and drink,
My zipper visibly straining,
And as you licked frosting from your lips,
My balls? They started draining.