(cvii)


When I consider how my dork is bent
In posture of disuse now ossified
And that lone urge will animate this hide
Lodged with me useless, its outlet absent
Mocking my amorous unemployment
And limp pathetic organ unapplied
“What future for this Lust, with Poon denied?”
I sourly ask. A voice indifferent
Replies: “Lust’s jaded; pulls no more the nipple
Of Ambition. One spoonful more or less
Is naught. He bids thee not inseminate
For ought. Thousands at his bidding couple
And frantic fuck themselves to senselessness.
They also serve who only masturbate.”