I often think I've been enslaved.

Reality drifts out of focus, contorting,

And suddenly I'm "depraved".

"You are a man, you are a man,"

I whisper to myself in the gym,

But I always end up reheated in a can.

There's a feeling of icicles

Scraping along an itch I can't scratch.

The itch, it's in my testicles.

"Yeah, man, ya oughta screw her."

This is the doctrine I am given,

But I don't want to fuck a sewer.

I have tastes, I want class,

Because the tumor is in remission

As I seek out such a lass.

I'll draw her in with a rhyme

Composed in my nest of rut and must.

So, some reassurance: "All in due time".