To My Part’s Content
 
The Rogue, they think, is out of ink,
But little do they know
That every clash, attack and gash
Enables him to grow.
 
He thanks you, dears, for eyes and ears
Upon his vaunted pen,
For as you watch his cumbrous crotch,
He dwarfs all other men.
 
You are the Muse he opts to use
To fill his throbbing head—
He arms, and loads, and then explodes
The shot your hotness bred.
 
Your beauty, lust, and bouncy bust
Bring rhythm to his rhyme,
So every stroke and swirl and poke
Arrives in perfect time.
 
Rejoice or bitch, no matter which,
Your thoughts are welcome here,
But be forewarned, the scoundrel scorned
Is not deceased — he’s near.