When I consider the curve of your cock
in even this mild, mathematical way,
I notice strange images start to knock.
Sticky things, mostly, and things made of rock.
A petrified marshmallow showed up today.
He either was stale, or scared by your cock.
So, I sent him away. A while back Bach
appeared at my door. He started to play
a sort of pipe organ. Bach did not knock.
Nor did his friends. He arrived with a flock
of cherry-faced cherubs and a golden bidet
with the weirdest fixtures—all curved like your cock.
Now, very few stores keep cherubs in stock,
which is why I thank God for Bach and eBay
whenever strange men with strange instruments knock.
And speaking of knocking, I think I forgot
to mention something. What I meant to say
concerned a key more than it did a cock.
This is for you. No need no more to knock.
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