Why Want More? Revolutionary Iambic Napkin Poem

Women pen poems of me;
of how I put them in ecstasy.
They write of my gentle kiss.
They rave on my perfect obelisk!

Some muse of my tenderness;
Of how I touch them; my sweet caress!
While all these women faun and adore,
what drives me on? Why should I want more?

More women who’ll write poems of me?
Of how I put them in ecstasy?
Is it because of my swollen heads?
For so long blue, but now frequently red?

Is it my ego that’s to blame?
Or is it because I NOW feel no shame?
After 20 years of self-consciousness,
of being rejected, no sweet caress,
I’m finally at last, well appreciated.
Maybe it will take 20 more until I am sated …
or sedated.

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