When you’re hung and need a glove, like me,
and the condoms on the shelf are all too wee,
try to wheedle girls, but no …
bonely bros uncovered know
we’re shut down without a mitten, can’t screw.

When in floppy phase my monster bar
is no larger than Fidel’s cigar
but what fits at easy stage
is too tight at tenser gauge ...
so I frown … without a mitten, can’t screw.

The hung have problems – can’t fit condoms
over a stunning standing dart.
What Nature dealt us below the belt was-
n’t ever made to cram in lambskin from the start.

So I figured if I polled my mast,
I’d get laid and know some joy at last.
I said “Surgeons, please take five,
let the root and roof survive …
from the middle nine is where to hew.
Want my spout to fit in mittens, thank you.

[musical interlude]

Thanks to skillful surgeons knives
now I’ve just enough to swive.
and my little man‘s wearin’ a suit …
cut-down and now be-mittened, can screw!

Now I’m whittled, itty-bitty but cut down to fit in mittens … can screw.