Erecting the D-Fences
 
It’s said Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but I
Show dimples to the jury when I grin and tell them why
I’m scorning just for jollies with the dollies in the sack
To watch them spread their follies as they mount their own…attack.

They skewer and they grill me, baste and bake my parts with haste,
But fillies, you won’t kill me — you’re just seasoning for taste.  
Beware — my next ERECTION will directly wreck you, ma’am,  
While rubberized protection wraps my massive rack of ham.
 
My latex sheathes preserve me from your boiling, oily gourd,
And heat has served to curve me — to a cutlass from a sword.
It bends and shifts the angle, so the lift is like a sickle —
Not hanging like a bangle, but inverted like a pickle.
 
The entry is positioned, fixing friction on your spot,
And that’s why I’m commissioned just to pop it when it’s hot—
But keep supplying versions of coercion (and its taint)
By casting your aspersions like you’re dainty — when you ain’t.
 
I’m sordid, I’ve cavorted, and I don’t regret a thing
For any harlot courted with my sporty ding-a-ling.
The hue-and-cry, and whining, is the pining aftermath
Of crumpets trumped and lumping all their loathing in with wrath.
 
They claim a gamed rejection of my egoistic bid, 
Or say that my affection was infected by my id,
And also that I failed them with a sock-inflated jock,
When, really, I impaled them with my rooster-boosted cock.  
 
I’ve heard the wordy rumors from the groom-and-do-me set,
Who let me in their bloomers like they owe the rogue a debt.
They claim I never “hit it”, as they play the shrew or prig,
Or say they cut or bit it, or they spit it like a pig.     
 
And so, in just recapping, all the babes are saving face
Because their minds were napping when I tapped their sacred place—
So let the yarns keep spinning as I tweak the sisterhood
By getting in and winning like the sinner — bad for good.