The Cock

Consider the lot of the cock:
Its manifold measures some mock.
Meant for peeing and plowing,
Its greatest endowing’s
Reached when its hard surface is sucked.

The shape of the beast is diverse,
From an arrow so narrow to worse.
Whether spear or sword
Or blunt stick untoward
From sow’s ear it’s changed to a purse.

Some curve, and a few even bend,
Some like bottle-necks slope to the end.
From vanished when cold
To swollen when bold,
It’s amazing to watch one extend.

The foreskin – if left – is quite curious,
Like something a trifle nefarious,
As though someone forgot
To trim ‘round the knot,
And it houses rank substance quite spurious.

A cock is quite honestly plumbing,
A tube that sprays liquids, one numbing.
For relief or for glee
Its products are free,
‘Til child-support lawyers come dunning.

The head, praise the head! It’s unique,
Like fingerprints are, so to speak.
It ends with a slit,
Unlike sister’s sweet clit,
And its hamm’ring leaves women quite weak.

Its names everyone knows are numerous:
Rod, staff, prick, probe, shaft. Voluminous!
Whatever it’s called,
Its mission’s to ball,
Then sleep ‘til it’s beckoned. Miraculous!

Of course, we must speak of its neighbors:
The hair and the balls aren’t evaders.
They cushion, they swing,
And sometimes they bring
A satisfied murmur from maters.

Females all, I am sorry to shock,
But your treasure resides ‘neath your frock.
I know what I’m doin’
So don’t talk of ruin
While I slide my key into your lock.
Ah, the cock!