Men

The male of the species, a strange thing indeed,
Be they gentlemen, blokes or just geezers,
Carnal, erotic and sexy when hot
But when cold – like Zanussi fridge-freezers.
Through the tantrums and sulks, they blow hot and cold
Moods changing as fast as their fashion,
One minute ‘hands off’ and ‘leave well alone’,
The next, its all amorous passion.
Yet predictable too, in that world of their own –
They just need to know they really matter,
Need the lads to applaud every sporting success
And a woman – their ego to flatter.
But why stop at just one? Why not have a few more?
Because some blokes are truly just players,
They just think with their dicks, got their brains in their pants,
Nowt inside when you peel back the layers.
Never say what they mean, never mean what they say,
They just sweet talk to keep the girls hanging,
Convincing themselves ‘every hole is a goal’
They couldn’t care less who they’re banging.
Yet it’s all just an act – nothing more than a front
Insecurities guiding their action
And in terms of a cure, nothing works quite as well
As a week with their cocks put in traction.
But they’re not all the same, some are even good fun
For those moments of unbridled pleasure,
So if yours puts you first and he’s good in the sack -
Then keep hold, he’s a National Treasure!