Writers of the porn,
writers of that form.
Their goal’s to make you moan
until you’re fully grown.
There’s an actor with a bone,
a “plumber” in her home
Writhing then aborns.

There’s blood filling up the chode;
it will be squirtin’ out a load.
Snaking, the schlong, its way
well past the foreplay.
It will give the mons a pry,
but climax won’t be nigh…
nip it till explode.

Girl is gonna clutch that man,
gird it—then she’ll hump that man.
Take her pliant hand,
plant it on his gland.
With that schlong gotta play,
thus paving the way
for it to slide inside;
no time can she abide.
Gotta jump that man. Bang!

Writhing to the porn,
writhe from night till morn.
From this, no child is born;
swimmers ain’t found a home.
Like a log that’s down been mown,
it’s sapped and small has grown.
Rising no more formed.

Writers of the porn,
writhers to the porn,
rising till full grown,
lifeless till more’s shown.