Stroke
An itch that no hand or girl could stroke,
A longing that only boredom could provoke.
A blank page and a boner no man could deny
What’s the use of the other sex if they cannot satisfy?
So much they inspire, from genius to its suicide,
Then left to taste your own gender: a thought to be tried?
When all efforts are fruitless of the their labour,
Is there something different left to savour?