I’ve always considered my body

A shrine or a temple of sorts,

Honed to perfection by exercise

Like snooker and other pub sports.

 

But lately I’ve noticed a blemish

To mar my immaculate bod,

So I’m starting to look like John Prescott

And less like a Classical God.

 

 

Besides being most unsightly

They’re open to much ridicule,

A feature that’s rather less welcome

Than a turd in a swimming pool.

 

I refer, of course, to my man boobs

(The laughter’ll have you in fits)

Women used to look at my etchings

Now they ask to look at my tits.

 

They’re starting to get so pendulous

I can’t fool the opposite sex

Into believing they’re not boobs at all

But a fine set of masculine pecs.

 

I’ve thought about cosmetic surgery

Instead of “Do-Nothing-and-Moan”;

The choice that I face is having them off

Or enhancing with that silicone.

 

It’s a hell of a disadvantage

Strutting a ladies bust,

But there is one thing that I’ve noticed,

In fairness there is a small plus.

 

They’re saving me quite a fortune

What I’d spend at the pub on wine;

See, I stay at home on an evening

And play with them all of the time.