‘Ode To My Shorn Sack’
Times had changed
A new era, begun
No longer my ball fro,
was an object of women’s fun.
A razor I was told, would restore my appeal.
A few quick strokes, should be no big deal.
With a steady hand, I looked down below.
I measured every inch, that razor would scroll.
The shiny silver blade, grazed along my sack.
Alas, my sex appeal, would soon find it’s way back.
For one brief moment, my attention was taken.
That moment in time, had left me aching.
As I stroked away, from north to south,
A sharp pain I felt, then foamed at the mouth.
I screamed and hollered and squealed like a piggy.
So much of my skin was no longer with me.
I fell to the floor.
The blood spewed like a fountain.
I no longer stood, like a man that once stood like a mountain.
I reached for the phone.
Three digits my fingers dialed.
In came the medic.
Marching about in singular file.
A miscalculation, would cause a major set back.
Not all of the King’s men could fix my poor nut sack.
Soon thereafter the doctor strolled in.
Extreme anguish, I knew he knew I was in.
A numbing agent, he quickly applied.
My balls shriveled up.
Felt, as if they had died.
I took a deep breath.
In misery I wallowed.
The sutures I so feared soon had followed.
I gasped for air and threw my head back.
Quickly finding religion, I prayed for my sack.
A lesson I learned.
A straight razor was not the answer.
Such a thing only ends in great disaster.
For many seasons, women have come and gone.
But, this ode to my shorn sack, will forever live on.