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.