On one hand

Wack, wack, wack,
spank that monkey until it’s dead,
he’s had forty girlfriends
but they’ve all been in his head.

Girls from television,
girls he met at work,
the lass from the opticians
with that nearly-open shirt.

Bang bang bang,
it’s great surfing on the ‘net,
look at mucky pictures
“you derty felthy get”.

Sticky tacky keyboard,
an accidental shot,
crunchy paper hankies,
trust me, it isn’t snot.

The lovely ladies’ pictures
have no sense of style or fashion,
there are no barriers to
imaginary palmist passion.

No art of conversation,
no need to buy them drinks,
fine for all perversion,
at least that’s what he thinks.

He’s fapping and he’s slapping
to a passionate crescendo
too bad he never noticed
the face staring at the window.

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