I've got a new story now and it goes like this: I took my hand out of my pocket, up came a fist. It was a headline news: One more abuse. I've got to tell it with a fist. It goes like this: Ho ho ho ho, hoo hoo hoo hoo.
So where's the feminity, the one with skirts and high-heels? A shiny sink and homemade meals. The one and only way, if you enter, you'll stay. Sons and daughters: You will breed, as long as you breastfeed. Yeah, being a man is bliss. One hit. One kiss.
Then the lights came, it was all a scene. Bend back, give head, it's not pornography. If you do it with lights, then it's art, you see. If you do it with a twist - yes, artistically.
I could do the laundry, the women's work. For a reasonable salary, I would wash the world. It wouldn't affect my libido or my self-esteem. I don't need to mark my territory: It's all obvious to me. It's manhood's bliss. One hit. One kiss. Spending time with my family, like the Corleones.