Gift of Life

There was an old man from Nantucket or possibly from Phuket...

Where was he from? Oh, fuck it!

It matters not. He thought of pussy, as a foreign shore.

It was always escaping and elusive when he sought to engage it, more.

His desire for pussy brought frustrating thought, and he could no more just say, "Fuck it."

In the darkness of his heart, furies roar. His mind, anger and violence, store.

While he wished to come upon the far away shore, just once more.

He wanted to breach the distant land, and walk on the beach of sand.

His cock within reach, taken into hand; he embarked on a journey, and took another stand.

He beseech-ed and commanded it to cum, once more; hoping his sanity, to restore.

In his youth, pussy had given him wings.

It had given him life; it was a wellspring.

Yet still amazed by that first sight, with its wonderful split and delicate folds adorning a pleasurable hole, he recalled it, every night.

Reliving, raze and the loss of light, within the stories untold, and the loss of might; pain he fight with each pejorative, historical sight.

Age, his plight; despair a theme song, soft and light that from his cage, he sings.

Feeling slighted by women seeming hemmed tight at the knee, and that pussy a sight, he will never again see.

Lust extreme for the delightful touch, scent, and the pleasures pussy bring; laying, as a seed in his soul, and harassing seem, from his memory keen. "A need withheld, pussy be." He told me.

Able to inspire vitality, and courage and life, restore; pussy is a fountain of youth which flow on a distant shore.

The powerful gift of life of which women do not know, kept withheld, betwixt their legs, it's stored.

Like magical beans that are buried in thorns, pussy is the only nourishment every age of man need, and without which, are lost at sea.

If a tale of an old man in need of pussy has meaning, let it be as a ship on voyage to a distant land.

Let it be one, where men willingly give up what they have, and band, in search, to hold a secret treasure, buried in the sand.

Let it be that a woman stores a gift of life to impart, not for herself, but in part, to lavishly share from the start.

The treasure is not in a far away land or distant isle lit by star, and the key to it can be found in a woman's heart.

Men don't let your tale of pussy be a memory of desire to fuck it, or as if it was a treasure lost in shifting sand, but more; how you live each day anew with courage and strength because of it, and kept the treasure bearer's heart in hand, and continue to walk together each day though the sand.