I have a thing for white frat boys.
They don’t have a thing
for me, therefore, what furious joys
I sing, I sing, I sing.
To the man who praised my ditty
but questioned the use of soul,
for unlike arse, leg and titty,
it gives the mind no hold,
I wish I’d said it sure isn’t gritty
to versify the soul,
but someone, though the job’s shitty,
got to watch the gloryhole.
You love the feel of leather, thin
rubbery sheath your chest and hips breathe in.
It makes me really hard to think
that is your kink. Mine is the smell of ink.