Massaging my Muscle

There’s a thing in my boxers; when it’s soft it’s a shrimp.
It’s a pisser, a worm, it’s a dangler, it’s limp.
When it’s hard, it’s my rifle, my sword, it’s my prize.
And at night it gets stiff and it grows to full size.

It says “Pull me. Your pants are too high. Let me out.”
So I lower my boxers to jerk. Grease my spout.
Got to wrestle my sausage and let out my goo.
Beat my meat. Drain my balls. Make a map of Peru.

So I strangle the snake. Pull my dick. Milk the moose.
Raise my shirt, take it off, then my boxers go too.
Let my hand on my dick go as fast as a car.
It feels good. It feels great. I feel warm and stroke hard.

I’m massaging my man meat, my legs are spread wide,
and my manhood feels stunning, it’s big, it’s my pride.
But I know that there’s more. I feel tense near my ass.
I’m about to explode. Drain the boys. Shoot a mass.

I can’t stop, and my legs start to twitch, then go stiff,
and my breathing is ragged, then stops, as I jizz.
My dick spasms, it throbs, as it pumps out my Scotch.
I’m exploding, unloading the spunk from my crotch.

When I look on my chest, there’s a map of Japan
in the white stuff that trickles and runs down my hand.
On my belly is splattered my yogurt, my brew—
it’s in puddles and rivers, my sheets messy too.

I grab tissues and wipe up my mess from my chest
and my belly and sheets. What a load! I’m impressed.
As I pull up my boxers and drift off to sleep,
I remember the fun when my one-eyed boy weeps.