Oh, I reminisce
Of Hugh-style
Sexiness, a
Gentle kind of
Sexist-ness
Bulging with
Pumped-up
Tits,
Bleach-soaked blondes with
Child-style
“This-is-what-I-like”
Lists
And all those
Prepubescent-like
Hairlessness.
Oh, of Hefner I reminisce
Of reader-less text
But a stuck together
Lass;
She was my favorite
Though
But forgot to wipe her off
After I explode,
Oh no, but I wear his
Robe though
And miss him
So much mo.
I’d like to call him dad though
Smothered with his
Gentlemen-ness, fuzzy tails,
And three tight little
Mistresses.
Sometimes I like fake shit
Because real is just
So real,
And when asked why he was such an
Ass, by a feminist
He said that he’d hope women would
Like his dream as much as
They are every man’s dream.
A dream that came from his broken heart,
When in youth
He was left with nothingness.
R.I.P. to Hefner’s Reminiscence
Now that sexual fantasy is
Political business.
