Moving On

One more pluck from the tree of my ailing heart
This prose will be nasty, like the wettest of fart
A young lad is going through a lot, I cannot front
So now if you would, allow me to be blunt
I no longer desire the warmth of a cunt
You can take your boobs and give them a punt
When one plays with your head as well as your gut
And they never supplied the destruction of nut
They demote themselves, from sheets to the streets
And I'll promote myself, to the beater of meats
I see how to some that came off a little gay
Understand that I don't desire men in any way
When your cock is a scale replica of the Eiffel Tower
A singular "meat" does not justify its power
Moral of the story, a young lad will be fine
All I need is oral, the self-serving kind
Have a good day and always remember
Unless she tears sack, you should never defend her