I wish my testes were a speculum,
So I could spread you open,
I wish my penis was corrugated paper,
So I could sop up your organ,
I wish you understood the art I do,
But you said, “Vulgarity for the sake of vulgarity
Isn’t art, it’s nothing,” and so I stewed,
And thought, preemptively lowered my volume,
And whispered, “It’s vulgarity
For the sake of my boner, Baby,
And that’s hardly nothing at all.”