My loins, my loins are roaring,
they rage for lack of whoring
and hurry me towards
a wench who treads the boards
in my bawdy theatre group.
She’d grinned at my swift swoop
like it was grotty cabaret
arranged by François Rabelais,
but rubber goes to waste.
Still waiting, sweaty, chaste,
I chase her expectant cunt
but I can’t fuck, so I don’t.
Done tickling, now I bring
myself to brashly swing
my swindled battering ram
towards a baffling dam,
a dimly-lighted rift.
I’m ruffled, more than miffed.
With muffled touch and sight,
while muzzled strict and tight,
distracted as a newborn,
burning for a shoehorn,
shame-laden, I search
and lose my lust and lurch
like a stunted stoat.
Still I can’t fuck, so I don’t.
Done trying, sighing, she
attempts to shelter me
with “Shagging isn’t all
life has to show, you fool!”
Unfulfilled, castrated,
strangled blue with hatred,
I tread and scrape the land
where lustful billboards stand.
Intangibly they sneer
for snacks and cars and beer
and belittle us for sport
as though they laugh and snort,
“Oi, Loser! You! Take note:
You can’t fuck!” – and, I don’t.
