There is a thing that sometimes throbs
Deep under the pants-cloth
Running long along the vertical
And often eased in bed
Who finds that affliction must measure steps well
Goes halting forward when called to proceed
Sometimes wincing at the feeling of it
The touch of one well loved kneading
Rump roasted in another oven long before
Rewards with relief the one who relishes it
Chastely but nearly enough to not
The one who seeks for wisdom
Whose insight is surpassing
That one will be able to say what it is
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Elliott RWI 