(except by those he is survived)

A poem.

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super sexy walking by
in black leggings and knee-highs:
a fantasy you can’t replicate with AI
on a busy esplanade at lunchtime –
creepy guy
creepy guy
here comes the creepy guy

working beside him
big brown eyes,
an HR complaint he can’t remise –
who needs a degree to flip french fries?
creepy guy
creepy guy
look out for the creepy guy

he’s coming for you
and all the nice cutes
and he doesn’t care for society’s rules,
and he isn’t rude
and could be a friend
but his dick is the voice on his shoulder
and says,
dashing guy!
stalwart guy!
play with me now, you virile guy!
touch me and make wings with
my loose nutsack skin, guy! and
don’t think about anything else
ever or
die, because
everything else pales in comparison to
the needs and the wants of the
creepy guy
creepy guy

now he’s a senior guy
looking down on a wrinkly, folded-up,
catheterized guy
in the low-income wing of the old folks’ home
standing over his floor’s coed throne pondering
days bygone,
still touching his wiener
and still all alone

“because the sacrifice for believing every woman was his
is that now he can’t take a straightforward piss.”

//wd 6.12.2026

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