Stop playing with yer cocks, cut off the penis throne

Stop playing with yer cocks, cut off the penis throne,

Prevent the mind from picturing the bitches with yer bone.

Silence the 12 inch pianist and with premature cum

Unsheath the Johnson, get yer mourning done.

Let anal memories circle round and round yer head

Scatting on the sky the message You Are Dead,

Put crepe bows round the snake like a pubic glove

Let suspender clad six footers wear it like they should.

There was the front, the back, the mouth and the chest,

All through the week, and Sunday was best,

At noon, at night, silent or in song;

I thought it would last forever:  I was wrong.

The scars aren’t wanted now:  get rid of every one;

I’ve packed up too soon and dismantled the fun;

Poured away the vigour and weep for the wood

For nothing now can cum to any good. 

inspired by w.h.auden