He hauled hast’ly his mons hoe,
The rake-a-beaver forged spline.
He looked at etchings of nubiles—
The craftsmanship was fine.
Started slapping the monster,
He raced the pace up and down.
Then he moved on to some airbrushed
Bush with a shaven mound.
Strokin’ the mons-stir,
Fired up, this guy,
Gropin’ the mons-stir.

Thus turned on, he’d ambled south
And pried with a pawful pound.
Chunky paws were running up and down,
Pulling it on rebound.
Spent, it was all over;
Like Onan, he laid it to waste
And it rimed upon the crown
Much like that sticky grade-school paste.
Strokin’ the monster,
Fired up, this guy,
Pokin’ the mons-stir.

Expended. . .up! was his gland. Oh well. . .
An expanded pole once more—
He started pollin’, tucked stones off to the side
So they would not get sore.
He nearly took flight from his dew-toned bed;
His gazed was glazed; he sweat.
Sown matter, then heavenly bliss—
More gropes on member? You bet!!
Pokin’ the “pa” gun,
Trifecta, this guy,
Onanist paw fun.