Tag Archives: Men

Thanks, Arbitrary Statistics!

A minute with me

Is an hour in Heaven,

But no woman will know

‘Cause I’m five-foot-eleven.

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Size Matters

Bigger is better in terms of pianos,

4×4’s, salaries, and dicks.

But smaller is better in the eyes of go-getters

When it comes to the waist size of chicks.

——————————————————–

Bigger is better, the man would insist

When it comes to masculine stuff

Because those said men have never had things

That were, in our eyes, big enough.

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When You Can Watch Something Other Than Baseball And Golf Again

‘Twas the week before football

And all through the States

Everyone outside Boston

Came to terms with their fates.

So many Don’taes,

Tyrones, and Lamars

Checked if Wendy’s needed

Someone who could lift cars.

Meanwhile those lucky

To remain on their teams

Prayed the ACL gods

Would not ruin their dreams.

The fans were all cozy

Wrapped up on their couches

While the TV says who’ll be

The sleepers and slouches.

And a tenth of a billion

Mostly female folks

Didn’t see the appeal

Of tackling blokes,

Yet still two-hundred-million

Pulled on overpriced shirts

With the last name of someone

Whose whole body hurts.

They’ll sit back to watch

As the combat begins.

They’ll be happy as long

As their animal wins.

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I’m Not Advocating Kidnapping, But…

We once had damsels in distress

And knights to ride to their aid.

Although the knights and damsels are gone

The distress somehow has stayed.

As the all-knowing poet

I have a solution of course:

We need more women who love dragons

And fewer men who own a horse.

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Men

There are 300 urinals present.

Just the first and last are used at all.

If one of those two isn’t open

Non-sociopaths use a stall.

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But Both Are Equally Boring When Presented By The Intellectual Elite

I questioned the need

For vagina monologues.

Why we needed them was a mystery.

Then I realized

That the penis dialogues

Was basically just all of history.

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The Answer, At Last!

All the single ladies

Ask where all the good men went,

Dreaming of the good old days

When the six-foot-plus millionaires

Without egos or exes

Would contact them conveniently

And buy them stuff

All without leaving the house.

Meanwhile the six-foot-plus

Drama-free millionaires

Are in their basements

Roleplaying car thieves

And writing bad poetry blogs.

You’re welcome.

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