Sir Cocksalot

Sir Cocksalot

Salutations and exclamations
Among those running rampant with masturbation
It is with great elation I feel the sensation
Oh blessed ye, sexual gratification!

I reach thee from the great Fuckingham palace
Victory by my hickory smoked meat phallus
Conjuring goo, too, into the fabled youth chalice
But nay, I say, on the worry you find me callous
For I'm all for sluts and their cunts, be they loose-lipped, wet or agape like they were jawless, their ever open wound a slit or peach pit, it matters not which for the witch's wound is to be itched, not stitched.

Oh, sluts! The juiciest of fruit
Sticky yet not tricky to dick, to boot
But aren't they unclean? Bah, the thought is moot
Their repute, though astute, soothes my knightly root.

Knightly root, you ask? You ass! A display so gay needs no warranted pass
The mere thought is crass, and devoid of class or glamour. I note your stammer, and now I bring down the hammer!

I am Sir Cocksalot and this is my story
I delight in sluts and all their glory
Be they weak-kneed, craving seed or just whore-y
I thrash in the gash, and splash in the slash I smash in a way non-allegory
But less about my chatter of splattered baby batter, lest I bore ye.

I am a knight, yet I am subject to slight
For when whores open doors to their aching bores I once found delight,
I find a bite of slight and not a righteous night, but a fight!
Sluts and whores used to be the same,
Their title while their bridles were pulled during fucks of no shame,
My might taken flight with my sight as I emptied in a once tight sight when I came,
Luckless and fuckless schmucks now taken with fucking whores instead of sluts, the former a job while the latter is a game,
Leaving us knights to fuck off, to write of fucks lost because of the sheer cost, written off and tossed aside like the glossy cocks they now charge to ride.

Fuck off, I say. With dismay that grows by the day, I pray that I can sway with this essay that this foul play should not stay, and make way again for the free way, else I disobey the knightly way, free to invite melee with the whores with their locked doors I abhor. The fact is, a tax on sex wrecks the once joyous treks for a slut's beckoning me into her bottleneck not with strange, vibrating tech, but demanding a check after their gash I rashly inspect and infect with my cock that I should protect.

Sex for money.
The thought is funny, that I must be charged when I charge down the tummy of a bouncing bunny, into her cunny so runny when it drips with lustful honey.

No, sex should be free. The ease to please and release should not cease, but give way to a new day where one does not pay to be laid. For love should be free as the witless but humble bumble bee. I grumble and see he has not found his hive nor tree, but she sees that bees have become enamored with my seed and honey into her runny cunny, into her belly filled with jelly. It is too sweet to charge and cheapen the fleeting feeling of sleek skeet skeet, and so now.. I weep.