Not My Pancreas
Why, oh why, oh why
Do the girls not talk to me?
Is it my ears? They droop. The lobes are prominent
Like bulbous, fleshy eardogs.
Is it my eyes. My piercing, grey-blue eyes. They stare
At children.
Is it my nose? It is large but not unsightly.
The bridge is formidable.
Is it my hair, all lank and chewy?
It reeks of uncles. Naughty, naughty uncles.
Is it my heart? It is brown and beats like puppies.
Puppies bouncing off an anvil.
Is it my legs? My hefty, bovine legs?
The knees are like udders.
Is it my pancreas? No. That is my greatest asset,
Yet it hides within my torso and mocks me from within.
Is it my chin? It juts downward towards hell
As though showing me my destiny.
Is it my glans?
Yes. It is my glans.
Anon
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