I’m taking now the pill that gets
up that soft part of you.
And so I hog lots because
I will want to woo.

You can’t beat masted meat. . .
hold it that last line is damn askew!
You can cop a feel
of your sturdy steel—
hold it and hew.

Pike a-burgeon,
up since a very long time.
Pike a-burgeon,
and that part peaks
post-incline.

Gonna be again a love-boy
it’s clear: not fading fast
is that apogeic view. . .
no crow’s nest on this mast!

About time I’ve some pine
straight and strong—it’s no jelly roll. . .
not spongy, but stout
and ready to rout,
burrow like a mole.

Pike a-burgeon,
strut since a very long time.
Pike a-burgeon
and that part peaks
then declines.

Uh-oh, no!

No decline, a long time—
much more than a four-hour incline.
This is too unreal;
it’s lost its appeal. . .
I can’t fell this pine!

Pike a-burgeon,
up for too much a long time.
Pike a-burgeon,
prolonged part peak—
hours now nine!!

Pike a-burgeon—nooooooooooooo!
Pike a-surgin’.
Not good, I opine.
Uncontrolled peak, up a whole week, what a hunk streak.

No, no, no. . . !

Now I fear my part peak
reaches Guinness Book time.