In Honour of NoM and Bobjugs (and after a fine Rioja)
It’s the future that makes them think.
Makes Bobjugs and NoM, Stop. And think.
Options will be UN-snipped, among other things.
For a few months, They climbed into the sexual dugout,
and watched their evolving game deep in thought.
They were often the testicular ball,
flying as if they’re hit.
This time though, They'll will step up to bat,
place that ball down the spermy boundary line,
because They think it may be safest there.
The best attacking play they’ve got.
Of course, it could get fielded,
thrown back,
hit them square between the eyes,
or some other Bobjugs fleshy part,
that his jockstrap doesn’t cover.
Dinner party conversation.
He’s had it undone, and him, and him, and him, and him.
Not a problem.
So easy.
In and out, so to speak.
Says Bobjugs, he will sometimes get the urge,
when the sun is bright through the kitchen window,
to curl up and sleep in the warm rays.
The promise of free sex.
Visions of passion,
without mechanical constraints,
or lifelong consequences.
Snip and unsolders,
re-cauterises and unlocks.
Appointment at 2:30.
Tomorrow.
And NoM says,
step up to the AB OP plate,
and bring her home the big shooter