Mike Dunleavy lay in bed, content after another victory on the basketball court. He looked over to the vague lump that was the sleeping form of his wife, Caroline, who had surrounded herself most of the sheets in her usual manner. Dunleavy didn’t mind. A lady as fine as Caroline should have all the sheets if she so desired.
Post-victory sex was always the best, he thought to himself, smiling. He didn’t know how this night could get any better. Wait a minute; yes he did!
He grabbed the notepad and pen that he kept on the bedside table. He was trying out keeping a dream diary; recurring dreams involving Stacy King and Tabasco sauce were troubling him. But he had different plans this time. He began to compose.
“Taj Gibson is a really chill dude
Sadly for him, when he gets in the mood
He takes out a pen and starts to write
A poorly constructed poem, so trite
There are many women on this vast earth
Few of whom can handle my vast girth
Some like it fast, some like it slow
But they all agree, Dunleavy’s the show
A helpless romantic Gibson is
Caroline’s face is smothered in my jizz
I’m sorry, Taj, for taking your girl
But your poetry made her want to hurl
They say everybody has a soulmate
Taj’s is a hand with which to masturbate
I enjoy the comfort of cheerleader Caroline
Locked in a loving embrace, forever mine.”
He put down the pen and paper, and laid back down to sleep. He would leave the poem in Taj’s locker tomorrow.