The Peddler

Poke…poke…poke…
He is poking with a difference
In tattered shirt and ragged trousers
And he still keeps poking.

Poke…poke…poke…
He moves his shaft
Up and down
Fast and slow
And drips all over
Transparent sticky liquid
And mops his brow
In exhaustion and exuberance
Poke… poke…
Poke…

He keeps poking
With that long rod
Hot and cold
Slow yet fast
For he is aflame with
Frenzied fever!

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