Until They Fix You

They love you, women do, when you’re rumpled like me. They love you, in beginning, when challenge drips honey like o’er your body, sour body, foul body washed once a week whether needed or not so needed at all, with nose hairs quite virginal, as virile as Sampson’s, unnoticed, untended to, unending, fierce tentacles, sweet sprouting things, God’s innocent things, growing lush, lewd and pretty, but she sees them, ladies see them, giggle hopelessly and endlessly, beg to pluck them, merely pull them, simply grab them, yank them tear them, oh they love you when yet they don’t have you, what a challenge, an innocent awfully virginal, unattached macho man. And they titter, tragically titter when they see you oh so rumpled, hair so tangled, clothes so formless, soul so innocent, pants so unpressed, shoes so unshined. And you are single, how they love you until they get you, grab your privates in lustful haveness and they own you, really have you, get to fix you till you’re fixed. Then they wonder, oh they wonder why they ever, ever loved you, you’re so incredibly terribly boring, always awfully totally boring.