The Penis-Ler

Please let me tell you the tale of Old Rory,
A warrior steeped in fame and in glory.
So noble of purpose, faithful, and true,
But in end, it seems, he turned quite blue.

Morals of this tale there are but one,
You will see that Old Rory you cannot shun.
Fidelity, hope, then despair in their turn,
Left Old Rory alone, alone left to yearn.

"A soldier, brave, courageous, without fright,
Stands ready to bear arms of deadly delight.
Alas, alone the hard post he must walk,
He stands at attention as firm as rock.

Company he craves alone in the dark,
The white of his flesh so shocking and stark.
His helmet a perch on top of his head,
Praying again that he won’t be misled.

His two bulbous feet are sore to the bone,
Side by side even two they hang there alone.
Within them is stored the key to all life,
If only the hand could awaken the wife.

The solider is staunch and firm in his duty,
Never a complaint, he just wants some booty.
But he knows that tonight as all other ones,
He’ll get no ass, no puss, not a mouth, no buns.

Dear me, I think, the best he can pray,
Is some lube, a porn, and for the hand to play.
In the deep of the dark so late at night,
It’s unfair, I say, and it just isn’t right.

Our great hero is left to wither and die,
A calamity such I have naught but to cry.
Shriveled by age, neglect, no longer to spew,
His beloved twin feet have turned a deep blue."

That is the tale, but shed not one tear,
Because half of us have Old Rory so near.
Pay him attention, on both sides of the fence!
I’ll tell you the truth, but that’s just my two cents.

Water him, nourish him, and watch him grow,
The blue fading fast as a hot lava flow.
Kiss him, sing to him, massage with your thumb,
And you’ll have many a year of Old Rory to come.