The lechers live on as their zippers all go down
For the wet lake they call Itchy Coochie
The cooch, it is said, never lets in the dead
When the males and their members turn droopy

With a belly they bore -- 86 fatty pounds more
Than the middle-aged men weighed at twenty
It's sad and it's true, there's no bone to protrude
When the men are dismembered and burly

Don't strip; try to hide the detumescence inside
Though you fantasize of Miss Wisconsin
As the big gators go, it was bigger than most
Many years ago, 'fore it was wizened

Producing few sperms, low testosterone confirms
That you're not loaded for Beaver Cleaving
And later that night, as you shrink from sight
Could it be mere repulsion you're feeling?​

It's fifty-ish chicks who emlimpen our sticks
With a chest that sags to their belly
And every man knows, as their cellulite shows,
That it turns our ramrods into jelly

No longer straight, disappointed his poor date
As the folds of her blubber were flashing
When neither one came, 'twas displeasing pain
With his face in a harridan's breast pinned

When schtupper time came, the old nook came to neck
Saying "Fella, my poor muff, I need ya"
At 7pm, her main snatchway caved in
She said, "Fella, it's too old to show ya"

The lady said to him, "I would love you coming in
"And I hope that your juices will flow some"
And later that night, when her blights came into sight
Came the emptied cor-pus cavernosum

Does anyone know where the lover's rod goes
When the young buds all fade like old flowers?
Researchers all say they'd be able to lay
Were she fifteen, with less flab behind her

They might have gave up or he might have surprised
He might have gone deep like he oughter
But lust that he feigns is for frames of other dames
Not the wives, but their kids or granddaughters

As her chin rolls, posterior swings;
In the ruins of her, eyes water; Man: shun
Old Mister, it seems, of a young girl dreams;
Their nylons and lace are for sportin'

And farther below, her scenario
Takes in what man weary can tender
And the iron rods go, as the older guys all know,
With the ails of November, no gender

With a musty old gal, "be adroit", he prayed
Have a Merry time; Nail her; She'll treat ya
In young men's primes, they can wank three or four times
For old men, need prescription Levitra™

The lechers live on, but they only can go down
On the wet lake they call Itchy Coochie
The furry "her", it's said, never lets in the dead
When the males and their members turn curly