A Poem of Natural Love (Note: Love as a physical act... not some emotion related to an endorphin rush...)

I wanted to write a poem about the birds and flowers,

     But birds and bees are better, as I’d like to fuck for hours.

I see no point in hiding it, veiled behind the decent,

     For this hard-on in my pants is anything but recent.

It may not curry favor, love, and it may blow my chance,

     But why try deceit? I’ll be direct: Please let me in your pants.

I suppose I understand the trait that woman do possess

     To want to hear such longing words of love and heart’s duress,

To hear soft licks of poetry, to speak of love forlorn…

     Sorry, but that sappy bullocks makes it hard to perform.

So I do find bliss and happiness in walking through green meadows;

     For all the world, in honesty, I’d much rather get head, though.

Not that I can’t be passionate, nor do I find it trite,

     But a sonnet’s singing’s not something I care to do at night.