Manhood

His latest poem is a toad king
It knows it is fatly sexual
Stroking its long thin piccolo cock
While admirers queue like bottles on a belt

And yes you've
Fidgeted in line
Waiting to pay your respects
Perhaps ghost your fingertips
Along its fine, slender shaft

Okay
Your verse may be pigeon-toed
All pale scrawn and perforated spine
But know this bucko
Between its pimpled knock-knees
Hangs a dick thick as a flashlight haft
Leathery, medieval,
Like the corpse of some bloated eel
Slowly browning on a sandbank

Sure, its brutish putrescence turns stomachs
No wet lips part in pliant, happy readiness
But o the weight
O the ripe ripe stench