Ode to the Guy Who Stocks the Condom Machines in Sleazy Gas Station Bathrooms.

Ode to the guy who stocks the condom machines in sleazy gas station bathrooms.

A friend to all men, to call him a hero would be apropos. Imagine the legions unborn saved from cold and starvation, Imagine the battalion of men avoiding masturbation.

Plenty are those who have kept vacant their wombs, As many as studs have dodged being grooms.

From hasty half clothed back seat tryst, To tediously planned scenarios involving handcuffed wrist.

Through truck stop glory hole, an adventure to explore, Down to rough rolling romps on a piss stained floor.

Just a bit is all it costs to get a French tickler or long latex wiggler. A flavored palate pleaser or a magnum clit teaser. A prostate punching Genghis Kahn, a ribbed monster to bring ecstasy long after dawn.

Moaning with zeal, again and again, interrupted by the manager.. ahem!

Ode to the guy who stocks the condom machine in sleazy gas station bathrooms.

For only a pittance he travels long distance. Paid with a handful of coins, he brings satisfaction to so many loins.

From the sleaziest whores to handsome boys with perfect pores. From frat house mixer, to the poop deck with Skipper.

An anonymous snog, blasphemy bathed, under pews, A commercial break blow job on the nine o’clock news.

A squeaky shoed orgy amid an avalanche of clowns. Thirteen thousand feet up of toward New England towns.

Amid dueling banjos heralding redneck Skeweee! To soft cooing caress between you and between me.

Ode to the man who is selfless and sure.

Blessed be this man who allows love to remain reckless and pure.