Round the bedroom, pillows flinging—
A D.C. groping throng.
With his fingers he is tickling,
Creeping downward to the schlong.
Where else are those digits creeping?
Not a lassie’s mound.
Queer old Massa glands is reaping:
Massa’s trolling for a flound’.

Down by the cornhole,
Where he might be found,
But then someone is a-peeping:
Massa’s rolling on the ground.

When the bottom’s briefs are falling,
Revealing a pole
That’s hard; it’s time to start installing
Hands upon that tumid roll.
When that organ squeezed is looming,
Give a hand and more
Till the spunker sprays are coming. . .
Massa’s revels—now and yore.

Down by the pornpole,
Where he might be found,
But then someone is a-peeping:
Massa’s trolling like a hound.

Massa made his staffers love him
’cause he is the kind
To have nads teabagged above him,
Afterwards to cleave a behind.
And then inward he likes to burrow
Till non-peer drops flow.
He rides his guys just like a burro. . .
Pickin’ up a trolled handjo’.

Down there he snorkels
As if in a sound,
But then someone is a-peeping:
Massa is a pole-troll hound.

Then Eric out-crazies
Even the wacked Beck.
Glenn looks in a daze; he
Maybe should fact-check.
“Your time I have wasted,”
He laments, so glum—
He thought blood he’d tasted
In old Massa’s chum.

Frowns, lacking chortles;
His match he has found.
Someone who is him out-creeping—
Massa got this troll unwound.