Poems About 'Nads

Last Friday I posted Poems About Boobies. They were fairly easy to write, as I have first-hand knowledge of the little jiggly tatas of love. In response to a comment by the handy QWMaine, I said I would later post poems about 'nads.

And here they are.

More difficult to write, because, well, I don't have them. I have *access* to some, a very awe-inspiring pair, matter of fact, but I don't wear them, they don't move when I walk, and I've never scratched them when I get up in the morning.

Plus it's late, and the poetic area of my brain (that would be in the right hemisphere, I believe) is snoozing somewhere alongside Sergei.

So, for your Friday enjoyment, and to keep the plumb on my creative well, here are poems about 'nads. With a picture of my breasteses at the end. (Wait for it!)

4 Poems About 'Nads And Stuff

With Apologies to T.S. Eliot and Anyone Who's Seen 'Cats':

The Naming of Balls

The Naming of Balls is a difficult thing,
It has to be done with much forethought and skill.
You may think I’m crazy, but the truth I do sing
When I tell you the names I have run through the mill.

First of all, there’s the names that we use in a clinic,
Like Gonads, or Testes, or Glands-in-the-Scrotum.
And though much correct, you may think me a cynic,
But the Balls HATE these names and the doctors who wrote ‘em!

They’d much prefer Nads, or Garbage, or Junk,
Or a name that’s obscure, but much more revealing,
Like Nuts, or The Jewels, or Two Pieces of Funk,
To the ladies, above all, they must be appealing.

On the street, men will speak of their Balls as a joke,
In a show of great brotherhood, spirit, and glee,
Like The Ugly Stepchildren, or Pigs By The Poke,
Or More-Than-A-Mouthful!, or Rocks-By-The-Tree!

But beyond all of this there’s still one little gem,
And here I confess that this may be a rumour,
That if you mistreat them, or squish them, or beat them,
The Balls themselves really have no sense of humour!


With All Apologies to W.H. Auden, and Anyone Who's Seen "Four Weddings and a Funeral":

Funeral Blue Balls

Stop all the traffic, make the lights go red,
For there’s something missing ‘down there’, I dread.
Silence the cell phones and stop the snakes hissing,
For one of my balls has now come up missing.

Let the news choppers circle the city in fleets,
Flying up, flying down, my well-traveled streets.
Because at some crossing or other, I know
That one of my gonads decided to go.

It was my right, my friend, the mate to my left,
Who’s now looking lonely and very bereft.
My morning twiddle, my midnight grope,
I thought my boxers would hold them. But nope.

He must have escaped when I wasn’t looking,
Some plan or another he must have been cooking.
Watch where you step, he’s lying about,
For nothing good comes of your ball popping out.


With All Apologies to Nurserys, Toddlers, Twinkling Stars, and Drunken College Boys Everywhere:

Dangle, dangle, little balls
As I run naked down the halls
To the bathroom now I race
Magic marker on my face

That’ll teach me not to drink
Half a keg of beer...I think....


With All Apologies (Again) to Mike Doughty and Soul Coughing Fans (sung to the tune of "Super Bon Bon" from the cd "Irresistible Bliss":

Super Ball Ball

Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free
Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free

If I go
Forget the underwear
And zip up
If I walk
Commando down the street
and hangin’.

Some kinda bulge
Is what I double dare,
My hands are close
Inside my pockets there,
To rise, to rise, to rise.

Too tight, tight, gotta breathe soon,
Robert Plant musta had a little extra room,
Grab, shift, and they’re there, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball
Too tight, tight, gotta shake it
Gonna make all the honeys wanna make it
Wid’ me, grab, shift, and they’re there, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball

And by
The phones
I see them there
Eighteen
Years old
They point
And stare.

Too tight, tight, it’s inflation,
Damn jeans have cut off the circulation,
Grab, yank, and they’re there, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball
Too tight, tight, gonna pass out
Gonna cut the crap and let my balls of brass out
Grab, zip, and they’re out, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball


Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free
Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free


And now, in honor of the college students returning, a photo of my cleavage, flanked by 'Guns, Germs, and Steel", "Democracy in America", and "The Case of the Female Orgasm". Just to add a little intellectualism. HAH!




(Addendum Warning: The Blogger comment link (top line) is full of spam, and the Haloscan comment link (bottom line) won't display. FAAACK! Use whatever, and I'll play with it this weekend. %&$*#@!)