PHALLACY Poem by Daljit Nagra

How oft do mates bang on at length about
the length they're hung and grab their crotch to slash
the air then chuck an arm at will around
a chum while necking Stella till they're lashed.
To tell the truth, I'm really not well hung,
and thus I hide from mates my prince's state,
this conk is king of my poor frame, no trunks
would lunchbox find to bank a lady's gaze.
And yet I hope the guys won't feel too down
when I recount my lover's hardly wimpish -
watch her stiffen over corrrrrs! from louts
who check her out too long (for she's that fit!).
In bed, most nights she'll sigh: O love, I love
the worldly way you work your subtle touch.