the player

the horny old man
with his rheumy eyes scanned
the pages of Penthouse
but like a dead mouse
his wrinkled member
like a leaf in December
lay fallen, forgotten
decaying, rotten
he yanked and twirled
conjured a past world
when for a mere 10-minute toil
he could dig out even oil
when crowds would pay to feel
12” of his feared steel
when for a bet he was able
to levitate the dinner table
and colony brats would swing
happily from his massive thing
when bullies would flee
as he unzipped to pee
and maidens would swoon
at the sight of his boon
he recalled the seminal best
of his youthful conquests
when he ruled all fanny
did girl, ma and granny
and today at 84
he prayed for an encore
silently, his wife looked on
and said maturely, “john”
as her whisky she poured
“where’s the chess board?”

ram cobain