9 inches

I'm not proud myself of myself
I did not make this thing I am
smaller than most trees
I'm only this writer's dick
I've a little less control than his tongue
and he can really be a prick
hardly a one woman has complained of me
they've mostly all cheered for show
for I am sometimes above nine inches
when the right spark lights my growth
this one dame harked "He's too big!"
but he's gentle my writer friend
a good while later she cursed his name
in a twisted compliment of shameful fame
he cried in his beer that night
I hate those lonely moments' fright
of he'll never love again
 
Poem by:
M.E.L.
 
(accompanied painting untitled by M.E.L.)