Thomas Boyce - A poem for you: Ball Shaving. Man-scaping,trimmers on the haul. Not one, but two the mirror shows from underneath the ball. This wicked sac, these gnarly hairs their thick and full of grey. Id like to whisk them easily, but thats just not the way. So Nair it is he grins and grunts while stretching at the skin. Theres more than just one way they say that every man can win. This is a game, of wits and lore yet never spoken of. The pasty skin below the belt resembling morning dove. A squeeze, a tug, a stretch, a hug, a whisker down the drain. Dear Tom my friend I am perplexed at what you mean to gain. The waxy shine of yester-brine adorning your poor bag. This poem alone may be enough to make this fellow gag.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Nov 2014 04:49:17 +0000
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