Crouching on my abdomen

Are three tiny little gentlemen.

  Each of them is scratching at my fever-dreaming skin.

One will kiss my navel,

While the other’s not as playful,

And the last of them is snickering my obvious chagrin.

Perhaps this game will reach a close,

One tiny man will give repose,

And can cling to life upon my finger, while I take a ****.

Inhaling on my agony

Maybe then he’ll find audacity

To grow in height, six feet or so— a decent stature bloke.