It's noting that your shorts are often open and your lap is free to watch
That makes my gender's seed, my sneaky glance wake up and flash upon your crotch;
And it's hoping I'm not strangled by my sodden bursting jock,
Or the G-strings that I've tried, oh, once or twice;
That creeps you with my fat hose as it quivers toward your mamm'ries,
That keeps your nether gen'tals on my mind.

I'm no twenty something cock, been on this planet for a solid 4 and 90;
It's something, ever since we met, our conversations drift to better walkers...
They're showing "Golden Girls" out on the big screen in the living,
As I gawk and long to air my sack and grind;
As your groove is fully exposed while you diddle with your knitting,
And your powdered turgid gen'tals awe my mind.

All the cheap meals and the coke lines and the Pop-Tarts and the pie may've shrunk my penis;
And some buttered poutine frying with a cruller sauce deterred my stifled prong.
My pills might cause angina, fears of soy might tame my tastes,
And your plumber's buns might spurn me, still I'm fine;
One's got to stare, I cannot seem to talk at all to back ho's,
My salacious show: your gen'tals, all vagine.

I grip my Cup-a-Soup, back to my dirty bathroom foggy with some strange farts;
I hear the rusty door chime and a gurney rattles slow, (we lost Ma Grace...)
Your slut hands grab my zipped pants and my member shows you tumescent and spry;
Yes, your shameless comely rack grows, and delivers some wide mamm'ries!
There's a pile of beaver gen'tals on my guy!