Unlucky Sperm Club
"A modest little person, with much to be modest about."
— Winston Churchill
Like everyone else I met a girl.
Now dreaming of Jeannie’s strawberry curls —
she shakes her hair out, nibbles my neck, I her porcelain ear.
Splash of Scotch, both of us lean in.
The last time I saw Jean —
dark woods, fingers shoved away, rosebud groping
showing classical restraint, a few fondlings and smooches,
tryst ventured no further — little Ashkenazi kid
studied indoors too much didn’t shave yet, with a flower-like goy
one of the schoolgirls I don’t get near — you can bet I wanted
her — held it in ‘til virgin oil steamed over.
Word finally came from the friend of a friend —
lung cancer won over bone china.
Rear-view mirror, mourning the consummation
more than celebrating the courtship,
first gone of those I almost entered — oh my, number one love.
The bitch is we yearned to smoke in bed but never did.