‘Twas the day before Valentine’s and all through the house,
Not a creature was thinking about his girlfriend or spouse.
Playstation controllers hung in chargers with care,
In hopes that new high scores soon would be there.
One man-child slept, with his eyes tightly shut,
Having booted out a chick, after busting a nut.
She put up a fuss, begging him to stay,
But he’d kicked her out still, fearing how she’d look in the day.
Then out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from his race-car bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Tripping over his action figures, weed and porn stash.
The moon on the breasts of his freshly-banged ho,
Gave the lustre of beer goggles to the creature below.
She plodded in the frost, and stumbled up near
Like a clumsy, retarded, overweight rein-deer.
Now she wasn’t the prettiest, and she wasn’t too quick,
But that night she’d been worthy of some man-child dick.
They’d met at a bar, on Tuesday Cheap Night
Her looks were the sort best kept out of the light.
But with alcohol and darkness working on her side,
She’d found a willing man, with too little pride.
He’d overlooked her muffin top, and total lack of grace
But dude, you gotta admit – at least she’s got a cute face!
He opened his window and she called out his name,
And pleaded for him to stop being so lame.
“I just don’t understand, I thought we had a good night!
Can we just start over? Can we try and set this right?”
The man-child giggled and pulled down his shades,
This girl was insane, like most that he’d laid.
Why would he ever want to settle down now?
With so many women a-waiting to be plowed?
The girls that he banged, expected nothing from him
And so nothing they got, while they lived at his whim.
Though thirty years old, and with money to spare,
He swore not to marry ’till he’d lost all his hair.
So the man-child yawned, and returned to his bed,
With visions of pizza pops dancing in his head.
His Valentine trudged all the way back to her place,
With disappointment and confusion still etched in her face.
The twenty-first century! The Age Of The Man-Child!
The callous, carefree cad with whom women are beguiled.
But they ask: What has become of men we could respect?
The men with better lines, than “Hello – are you wet? ”
The answer is, that man is dead. The Man-child is his heir.
Commitment and monogamy? Not while they have their hair.
Now ladies, you may think this world to be a bit macabre,
But happy Valentine’s anyways! Now how ’bout a blowjob?