Thursday, January 25, 2007

Absolutely Flaccid
Girls. Girls. Girls.
You want them.
We got them.
They hang from poles for your delight.
And if we only had meat hooks,
the slaughterhouse of your somewhat
sexually confused dreams would be complete.

Did I say meat?
You bet I did!
But not the other red meat.
Not the other white meat either.
Nah. How’sa bout some shade of meat
dead center them thar two
titillating tones o’ pulsating protein?
An exact shade of pink
smack dab your object of desire.
This is what you want, right?
Not to worry.
We’re flexible.
Just watch.
We can tweak our taunt to penetrate
all the way to the center of your
erect wad of George Washingtons.
And just look at the size of those pockets!

Have we paused to tell you
how much you’re appreciated?
Why you’re our favorite idiot,
and we will indulge your every whim
as long as you can sustain that there bulge of…
Just how are
all those Georgie Washingtons?

Oooo, I bet you’ve got
something bigger in there don’t you?
Something huge.
Andrew Jackson huge.
Have I ever told you
how sexy Andrew Jackson is?
Oh and you?
You so remind me of Andrew.
Yes. That look on your face is
dead ringer for the seventh president.
Why, Mr. President!
What big eyes you have!
Indeed, there in your ample pockets live
six inch after six inch after six inch of
flat dead presidents,
and as wooed as I am by your
exquisitely greased mullet and
Andrew Jackson potential, dare say
I can sense the presence of a President Grant
lurking there in your wad o’ sex appeal.

Like you, our eighteenth president was a man of
such insatiable appetite.
Plop your six inch Grant in my hand
and the three of us will take a stroll
to the promised land.

But no. What’s this?
It would appear your pockets
have gone lame duck.
No Grants or Jacksons.
No Hamiltons or Lincolns.
Not even one
single solitary remaining
Mister Washington.

Oh, I’ll grant you you’ve got six inches of
some sort of George there in your pocket.
Grant that you deem it worthy of
forty seconds of something.
But I regret to tell you that your
forty second George is
and never will be
a worthy President.
Your six inch of George
ain’t nothin’ but flaccid dick.

Indeed, we regret tell you,
that your George or Dick or
whatever vice you care to call your
concept of presidency… they
are just about worthless.
Lame Duck or
Lame Fuck…
Either way, it is time
for you
to go.

©06 Jack Hubbell

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