More About Sex--Playing Coy--Buns, Bosoms and Hair

More About Sex / Playing Coy / Buns, Bosoms and Hair
                           
When my mind was near-exhausted, and my body was fatigued,
I then paused to write some verses, which, of all my torpor, reeked. 
I figured that, with “I” collapsing, Mistress Muse herself might flow
And in my lines, her form of beauty, quite bereft of clothing, show.

Alas, although I write this line as “I” is past collapsing,
I see no trace of her who should, to nudity, be lapsing.    
So I should end this poem now, if you permit that name for it,
And since Ms. Muse is playing coy, I might perhaps take blame for it.

But ending, at the proper times,
My verses, with their pounding rhymes,
Has never been my strongest point.
In this, I tend to disappoint.

So dear Ms. Muse, who’s playing coy,
Your presence, we would all enjoy,
Especially if (Am I being rude?),
You’d sing your songs while in the nude.

Aha!  She’s scolding!  Could it be,
Ms. Muse, herself, yes even she,
In matters that she deems as rude,
Is much inclined to be a prude?

But now I hear a woman’s speech,
A mortal, who presumes to teach
Another mortal, me, the manners
Requisite, displayed in banners.

“Men are low!”  the banners cry,
“We wonder why they do not die!
It’s time we stop from doing jobs
That we have done for those nabobs!”

And those assembled, women all,
With voices loud, for justice call.
Their slogans they repeat, and chorus,
“Men are vile – and worse, they bore us!”

And one by one, they raise complaints,
Reminding men of all their taints.
And singly, or in groups, they rise
And sing of men who aren’t wise.

“They do not see our faces, eyes,
And while they’re spouting out their lies,
They only look for boob and tushy,
Favoring regions round and cushy.

“A man-child sucks upon a nipple,
And some, when older, seek to tipple.
But all men crave, till end, to suckle,
Seeking bosoms till they buckle.

“They find no use for grace or mind.
They fasten on to bust, behind.
Some see our legs -- but then raise eyes
To see what else, between them, lies!

“To call them human is a stretch.
At best, they serve to fix and fetch.
And yet, it’s we who serve as donkeys
For these dimwit, hairy monkeys!

And some shout, “Down with men who’re rapists!”
I applaud, but “Those, who’re apish,
Should be slaughtered!”  I demur at,
Fearing we may all incur that.

The orator, beneath the signs,
For silence, in her hauteur, signs.
“It’s women who should rule this world.
And men should be, in gutters, hurled!

“We women, we have slaved for long,
Before we ever wore a thong,
Before we even dreamed of knickers,
Baring bottoms, hearing snickers…

“Long before our brassieres
Competed with our derrieres,
We have slaved for men, although
We’re better – as we all should know.

“We’re the ones with babes to bear.
The stallion mounts upon the mare
And then departs.   He satisfies
His lust -- and duties then denies.

“And men!   They have this tendency,
In matters sexual, to be
So crass, that we, the better sexed,
Do wonder why we still are vexed.

“For men are simply beings low,
Whose bestial cravings clearly show.
It’s time we put them in their place,
Perhaps in a subhuman race.”

And then I heard a group of nuns,
In habits, with protruding buns,
Proclaim, while rocking their behinds,
“These thoughts have long been on our minds!”

They stomped their feet and wiggled buns,
This group of callipygian nuns.
And slapping then their hips, they cried,
“We nuns have things unchaste decried!

“It’s time that we establish rules
With which to deal with men, who’re fools
In matters that are delicate,
More so, for those who’re celibate.”

And all of the assembled crowd,
Said lustily, in voices loud,
“It’s time for us to end their jigs!
For men are either dogs or pigs!”

On hearing this, I was perplexed.
Are women so, by mankind, vexed?
No wonder then that Mistress Muse,
My pleas, has chosen to refuse!

And thinking then of hounds I’d known
And boars I’d glimpsed (alas, unknown),
I wondered if we men should smile,
For dogs and pigs are not so vile…

I’d started on my verse, collapsing,
Into doggerel, relapsing.
And all that mostly came to mind
Were glimpses, past, of round behinds…

And then, as twin reflections, those,
That on pubescent torsos rose,
So’s to balance rear attractions,
Creating thus, in mankind, factions…

But though a woman’s form was fair,
At center was her best affair,
That called to men through several senses,
 When women used to air their menses…

But now, alas, a woman’s draped,
With fears, when nude, of being raped.
And some, who see them as possessions,
This covering up, they take as missions.

And so, perhaps they have it right,
These women.   Men -- they aren’t bright.
The things they crave, they try to hide,
While seeking eyefuls on the side.

But charms, when hidden from the light,
May cease, in time, to give delight.
For Nature meant for parts with hair
Access to healing light and air…

But see, by writing vapid verses, being then by buns accosted,
We men can still remain awake, even when we’re quite exhausted. 
And though Athena stays aloof, Aphrodite takes her place,
For she delights in showing us the teasing parts below her face.

And if, at this, some women sniff, while others frown or even glower,
And some advise that versifiers take, perhaps, a freezing shower,
I declare, that while collapsing, seeking bare Athena’s song,
I encountered, in my musings, Aphrodite, sans her thong.

2013  November 25th, Mon.
(with some stanzas added Nov. 27th, Wed.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn