Tell Anyone

My readers say that the lines I write
bring them mirth and great delight.
The sensual tales I bring their ears
chase away their stress and fears;
all these things so written in rhyme
bring memories of a happier time:
literary satires and practical jokes,
Black Label quarts and two litre Cokes;
when ripening youth put fluff on the chin
and female eyes incited to sin;
but to no avail, we are happy to say,
we left them alone ’cause we were gay.
Their bright red lips raised no desire,
their swelling breasts just lit no fire
or caused any stirring in our loins
for our currency had quite different coins.
We preferred to work upon each other
or another classmate’s older brother.
The older brother was always first prize.
I once had one with the darkest eyes,
the quintessential football jock,
who somehow knew I just wanted his cock.
One afternoon while in their yard
I got lucky when he caught me off guard:
He pulled me into the garden shed,
dropped his pants, and let me give him head.
He came in three wonderful spurts of white.
His muscles were twitching. A beautiful sight!
But oh! He spoilt it for me when he said:
“You tell anyone, kid, and you are dead!”