What happened to my sex drive?

(sung – in a round pussy willow warble - to the tune of --

Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone).

 

Once pronounced libido of mine

took kamikaze nose dive,

whereby about two thirds of mein kampf ago,
I yearned to be sought after beaux

yet as severely socially

anxious and withdrawn lad

present day ofttimes repeated laments
find me to crow
slamming self NOT losing

my virginity at a precocious ago,

cursing lack of tangible results courtesy

 

feeble attempts delivered deathblow

to a fragile ego,

and now only

as a married celibate sexagenarian

dearth of rutting thoughts

along the unforgettable lines sketched out

by storied author Eugene O'Neill

includes lustful and romantic desire,

largely illustrated by the relationship

between Eben and Abbie

 

hashtagged within tragedy

Desire Under the Elms

ricochets with salient significance

an attempt by O'Neill

to adapt plot elements

and themes of Greek tragedy

to a rural New England setting

inspired by the myth of Phaedra,

Hippolytus, and Theseus,

which story of five characters
on a rural farm

 

in 1850s' New England,
how their lives
both pushed together
and pulled apart
by their conflicting desires

such aboriginal, primal,

optimal, animal, et cetera characteristics

once figuratively bounces

hither and yon, to and fro
within testosterone

powered windmills in my mind.

 

With a flame boy hunt

deft jais nais sais quois

firm lickey split tongue

and two bell yule yar pissant

little nippy nappy noopy ruck berry

filled up paul ling sacks

viz peppy la pew doth not peter out,

and weathers clawed rained swipes

from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung

assisting climbing Jacob's ladder

 

(without pussy footing,

orb bing a putz like the president)

advancing quick to attain orgasmic rung

while heading into a slippery sloping sluice

(with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill

smooth sailing along a cunt

re coarse upon phallic shaped pung

crossing la brea tar pits (peppered

with lai bee ha tricky

bridge over the River Kwai)

 

comprising ideal place de la resistance

to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate,

where two puckered

rill lee fleshy ruffling rills

tinged pinkish lips overhung

a challenging escarpment,

where many a brave

Tom, Harry or Dick get hung

up, particularly while searching

for fabled “G” spot,

 

Fear of Flying (a bildungsroman

whose central theme couched

in the search

for self-discovery) by Erica Jung

cuz portcullis hamstrung

even the most fiercely determined

Engelbert Hump per dink

necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver

as most studs know tubby gelandesprung

 

though booby prize

wool worth any slimy setbacks,

where sticky gook gets flung

from angry cat,

who does not in the least find amusing,

and if further pricked with rage

not averse to hurl dung

gar (with) ease at snaky,

retractable hardened foo fighting

beastie boy twill clung

for dear life and limb

(er, or twig and berries),

while applying crampons (bivouacked

within his maxipad), viz bung

gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove

screwed and hammered out
by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled,

kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among

pheromone laced verboten fruit.