I awoke today and found, I was pawing-bound.
I covered up with clothes my thighs,
Then I hobbled into town.
Wanted to a maiden hold
And get a squeeze was my fondest frottaging hope.
I get the urge for groping,
But I never seem to grope.

I get the urge for groping
When a head-grow lass is walking ’round
In a crowd, but then I’m cowed,
My digits not closing in.

The thought of grabbing is sublime. . .
Hands on fabric on skin.
I thinks such thoughts. . .can’t keep it down,
Can barely keep it in.
Push comes to shove, I’ve found:
I can’t put my hand on, nope.
I get the urge for groping,
But I never let ’em grope.

I get the urge for groping
When a head-grow lass is bending down;
I get wound, but fist is bound—
My digits not clothes lifting.

I’m a worrier that fingers on ladies will cause them to shout
To police they’ll be crying. . .I ain’t even hanging out.
So, no goose there’ll be tonight—
Nope, I don’t want to go down that slippery slope.

I’ve got the urge for groping,
But unlike the Pope’s troops, I won’t grope.

I’ll nix the urge for groping—
Touch no threads, hose, gams, tits—squirming mounds.
Slumping, I’m crawling out of town,
My digits not clothes shifting.

I’ll ply my spire with fingers now;
I’ll pull the wank-it up toward my chin.
I’ll lock on. . .play-with sprit is stout. . .
Enfold the warming skin.
I strike my maul—then, sodden clime.
My burgeoned way has culminated—where’s the soap?
The urge for auto-groping,
And I finally got to grope.

I got the urge for groping.
So I shed those pants. . .to the ankles down.
Thus mauled, my spent spire’s falling down.
That wick urge. . .growing again.