Super Power Through Poetry.

Warning: Indelicate.

I have never been able to fathom how some skinny horned rimmed spectacled excuse for manhood can dash off a few words about wandering by himself and thinking he might be a cloud, can get the fairer sex’s knickers tumbling down around their ankles with great abandon.

Is it a safety issue? These spotty Herberts could not sport a viable spermatozoon invasion for the life of them. Whatever the reason, one would be remiss in overlooking this aberration in the female lexicon of acceptable foreplays. 

I decided to cut to the chase. I put ‘poets’ into the google search box and what the heck….. 55,100,000 hits in .35 seconds. 

If that’s the number of poets wandering around being bloody clouds, then is it any wonder that the world is so overpopulated? 

I realized then that I was the one walking around with a close relationship with clouds, my head was well and truly in them! 

Fifty-five million of these gormless loons throwing around gallons of their spermatozoa, impregnating everything in sight, and me having to apply copious amounts of expensive booze in order to be invited into the damsel’s special caverns of delight. 

Sod me, I didn’t even have to buy a bloody book. This sort of gooey crap was there for free! There’s so much of this stuff out there on the net, that I’m surprised that there’s enough room left over for the more mundane articles, like brain and energy research.

It was the road to Damascus, the time that I had wasted getting pissed, and learning bawdy rugby songs, well, except for ‘Abdul Abulbul Amir,’ a work of a soldier’s genius! 

It was then that I had my second religious experience, did I want these timid types of maidenly virtue hanging off the end of my manhood or not? After much thought, I decided I did. It was really beneath me to bring this sort of prejudicial attitude into my contemplations. Who was I to introduce a form of apartheid and deny a whole section of womanhood from my ministrations! No, I made my mind up, all shapes and colours would be favoured by my ethereal renditions. That conclusion actually brought a little lump in my throat. If the world at large could treat each other as generously, what a fine place it would be.

However, enough of this time-wasting, I’d be looking for bloody clouds, next.

I knew that I would have to combine this shit with getting fitter and be on a healthier eating regimen if I was going to have to service all those broads that would be falling over themselves to get my Y fronts down around my ankles to match their own. 

I want to say, here and now, what marvellous things, these bloody computers are! I looked up exercises, and the Canadian 5BX popped up straight away. This routine will enable me to transfer the muscle that I have around my waist back up to my chest area, from whence it came. If I hadn’t had an abundance of the fortitude gene swirling around in me, I think I would have fallen at the first hurdle. There’s no pissing around with this caper, well not if you are determined to get a handle on this wooing malarkey. If I can get my manhood to achieve and maintain a stiffness that I experienced in that initial period of exercise, then look out you babes. You are destined to live a life of sexual famine after being attended to listening to my dulcet tones and being serviced by a master. 

Whoever would have thought that such educative tomes as the ‘Kama Sutra’ would be splashed around the net for any yobbo to avail himself of, and free too? Should be made compulsory in co-educational schools!

The guy at our local shop sold some of the protein stuff that got me going in the right direction. He also said he had some, wink, wink, stuff that in a few months would have me shouldering Arnie off the sidewalk. I thanked him but declined, I understand that guys going that route somehow finish up with not being able to locate their old John Thomas with a magnifying glass. Most of them at the gym, sit down to pee. So, as I start to pack on the beef, I’d better keep a good eye out for what goes on down there at my nether regions. It wouldn’t do to get myself fit for the onslaught, and have the bird unable to function properly because the tears of laughter obscured her vision beholding my shrunken whatsit. 

Maybe that’s another secret, instead of having muscles, all the physical development of those skinny poets went south of the border, and the girls instinctively know this. Perhaps it’s not about clouds or sorrow, at all, but you might say, ‘The measure of the man’.

No, It can’t be that. I’ll stick to the ‘Moon in June’ strategy, the women obviously go nuts when you say that combination of words in that fucking sing-song way. I’m going to have to concentrate on the rhyming type of shit. I’m pretty sure that the other non-rhyming free-flowing contemporaneous bollix would only attract lesbians. Bloody clouds would get short shrift with those ball busters.

I worked hard at those rhymes. I stuck to the more upbeat ones which talked of passion and love a lot. I thought that would put them in the right mood. I was buggered if I wanted anything to do with depressive shit poetry. I wanted to get the birds in bed, not off the side of a bridge. 

Anyway, I knuckled down and went over and over the sloppy stuff enough times to handle my acute embarrassment at what was coming out of my mouth, but I really fucked up before a mirror. That really found me out. I was starting to think this caper wasn’t worth it, and I would have to put more overtime in to buy enough booze to account for my improved physical condition and correspondingly, improved randy status. I was not a bad performer normally, but I suspected my old performances were just the tip of a helluva jutting iceberg now. 

However, it took me a long time to master this going eyeball to eyeball with myself, but I did it. I delivered to myself a valuable lesson in dedication. Bugger me, I’ve gotten to the point of being able to spout off this stuff by the yard, with my pants coming off and a ‘Johnny’ tied on ready for mounting, without missing a beat. Those luscious swooning creatures would be on their backs, with their legs in the air before I’d uttered the final fucking syllable. 

After I’ve nailed the first hundred or so, I think I’ll set up a school for failed horny wannabes. Life is short. I’ll advertise it as a way of getting your end in without having to get pissed out of your brain! They would be able to pay for the course with the money they didn’t have to spend on plonk.

All in all, the future is endless and beautiful. What more could an enlightened Super-Hero-Poet like me, wish for.