Sensory Input

 

 

The good stiff prick no conscience knows,

   Thus cannot be misled,

And, oh! the places soft he goes

   When love gets in his head.

 

Yet cares not, no, a single whit

   He has no sense of sight;

He finds full well the darkened slit

    In quite the blackest night;

 

Yet deems it well a virtue that

    He has a sense of smell

That tells him where true Love is at,

    And leads him there as well.

 

He kisses brief the moistened lips,

    Then parts them good and wide,

And, as they smile, he smoothly slips

    Deliriously inside.

 

He hastens now to plant his seed,

    Yet tries to temper haste;

He tastes full well, and, for his deed,

    He deems he has good taste.

 

He hears now not a single sound,

    He cares no whit for hearing;

For all the flesh does warm surround

   His he finds amply cheering.

 

So smooth, so snug, so moist, so soft

    —God, bless thy sense of touch!

For this one sense the stiff prick oft

    Cares deeply, too, and much.

 

For sense of sight, for sense of sound,

    He cares not, long and thick,

If taste and touch and smell abound

    To swell the good stiff prick.

 

Oh…oh—Oh!!!—too soon! his love is spent,

   Limp, he laments he rushed.

Yet smiles to think where his love went,

    With bawdy humor flushed.

 

Farewell! Farewell! dear late stiff prick,

   I saint you blest late bloomer;

I who so soft, wet, warm, and slick

   Had (so long!) thought you rumor.