The Clitoris

Consider the plight of the clitoris.
Amongst men, its mysteries, they twitter us.
Blatant in many, though hidden in some,
Its cues, praise the muse, lead us where we would come.
Pulsing, demanding, its li’l presence tells us,
“Lick me, you dolt, and make it like Chris’mas!”

Once past the taste, it’s much like a pea.
“Thank the gods,” one doth think, “’tis not time for tea!”
But it is, she insists, while clasping your ears,
And your name is a trumpet through seraglio tears.

Its demands are legion, rewards paid so late,
One thinks, Why? as one looks to see cockskin inflate.

Once in the kip the nub hardly matters,
Just scratching its scalp brings a groan that near shatters
The ominous portent of climax so great,
No wonder all animals strive so to mate.

As ghosts of old conquests line up at your grave,
They’ll say, “Whats’isname talked lots, his gestures were brave,
His words were so solemn, though seldom he gave
Proper heed to the clitoris, the dreadful old knave.”

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