On my screen, your ***-handful,
Has loaded to me now, at last,
Like harem girls of old Cabul,
I know you'll grant a lengthy blast.

Hand creeps slowly to drawerful
Of socks for me begotten
Only to take this milk of bull,
Seed that starts as rotten.

Of spunked-up days past
I think, when eyes they rest
On piles of cloth I've splash't,
To **** unlike your crest.

For in all the brothels World has seen,
No milkers greater have e'er been.

Garrote my carrot.
For i cannot
Bring my fing'
To dickshaft wring

In pain I want for nothing,
It's slain my lust for *******,
In vain I shan't be working,
To gain a woman's raw thing.

**** for a magic potion,
Sliced by a druid's sickle,
I rub it in like lotion,
To cause my seed to trickle.

The lambda is the Greek-L,
But even those gods - fickle
In lending me the mir'cle :
Insertion of a full-grown dickle.

(Now my song is over,
You heard it there in Dover,
Unless drown'd by your lover.
I'll stick to my ***** glover.)