They're chasing, chasing ladies.
They want to taste succulence between their swollen *******.
They're looking for love in the form of affection, in recognition that once they were young.
They were once insecure,
Little boys lost.
These women, voluptuous full up with passion, have a smell so familiar.
That of absconded childhood, now turned into wild hood.
And so they cry, when taken from the breast.
Deposited in bottle banks, as once again they cry some more.
These little boys who decry woman form regardless of her cost.
His mother was precious.
She was victorious in making a man, from mother's milk an infant raised to be a gentleman.
(C) Livvi