Women will talk to their friends
About what their friends would say
If they knew what someone whose not their friend
Said “Hi” instead of “Hey”.
They’ll whisper all about a person’s
Clothes or hair or walk.
Guys don’t have this problem
Because male friends don’t talk.
Cars and sports and guns and sports
And balls and boobs and mustard:
These (plus sports) are what guys like;
Other stuff makes them flustered.
I would write another poem
About what women like too
But they just can’t even anymore
And if you don’t know, they won’t tell you.
My girl is sexier than yours.
She could knock hinges off doors.
She has pretty knees and toes
And looks good with and without clothes.
She has pretty auburn hair
And says fancy stuff like “Au contraire”.
She’s the girl I’m going to marry…
Who cares if she’s imaginary?
All the women who play video games
And complain about bikini armor
Never seem to complain about how
Swords and arrows never harm her,
But men are stuck with heavy armor
Instead of a chainmail thong
Because if men could wear female armor
They’d be unbelievably strong.
Mohammed had a magic carpet
That very ably flew;
It could go zero to sixty
In precisely 8.2
But Aladdin had a carpet
With a sunroof and AC
So the choice of who to date
Was obvious to me!
Horsey horsey, riding in circles,
Pooping and snorting and chewing on grass.
Horsey horsey, tired of people
Comparing each other to your lovely ass.
Horsey horsey, with shoes made of metal,
Hair on your neck, your face, and your butt.
For some reason women all seem to love you
You’ve something I don’t, but I can’t think of what…
It rises like a mountain,
Slopes gently like a hill,
Softer than a lullaby
And gives me such a thrill;
A spectacle, a marvel,
And my mouth will never shut
As I gaze with loving splendor
On my girl’s majestic butt.
Sometimes I look in the mirror
And see myself staring at me,
And when I clean the glass it gets clearer
And I know it’s my face that I see
And I look at myself and think “Wow!
“That’s expected, and not very shocking!”
And that, my dear lady, is what I perceive
And thus space out when you start talking.
Sophie was an average girl
With fairly average likes;
Fond of wine and dogs and soap
And mental health and hikes.
One day she was kidnapped
By a disembodied voice
Who told her she would surely die
Unless she made the choice:
Would she rather kiss someone
Who smelled liked a catcher’s mitt
That had been soaked in sour milk
And armadillo spit
While treading water in a pool
Of acid, hot as Hades
And listening to Kenny G
Play highlights of the eighties
While the Devil lit a match
And burned off all her hair…
Or, when asked where she’d like to eat
To not say “I don’t care.”
If they rebooted “Fight Club“
With an all-female cast
It would feature Taylor Durden
Remembering her past
When she and thousands of women
From different means and ends
Got together in a basement
And pretended to be friends
Until at last they’d had enough
And used some dynamite
To blow up buildings, and then were like
“Becky’s so cringe, right?”