How Boys Write About Lust

You look like a mirage in this little wrinkle of time,

I swing for the fences and misstep all my lines,

I’m no poet, I just spit the truth that I feel,

Can’t help it if I scribble you into the spiel.

God look at her go, she’s sex on the beach,

She’s blond hair and short shorts and the hot sort of messy,

And she knows it, I’ll blow it if she dares talk to me,

Left alone to my fantasies (of her blowing me).

Cause I swear I play Fortnite and red-ribbon my blues,

And now I smell like myopathy and the ugliest truth,

I eat shit with my cereal like it’s easy to do,

But blond girls got me baby, string me into a ruse.

And maybe Bukowski had a point after all,

When he wrote about hookers and the sensual height of the fall,

And maybe those daydreams of women were right,

She’s dazzling like dalliances, she’s sweet like a fight.

So tell me baby, how you’ll string me along for the ride,

I’m just a boy, half-sorry that I’ll take up your time,

Not worth it probably, you could step all over my face,

I’d let you. I’ll poem you. Just take me outta this place.