To clip, 'tis not a gentile thing--
Remove tip from the pole.
To rabbi Ben the praise be given,
Because he's so carefully riven
It--that why he's called Mohle.

The mariner'd thus been defleshed
As youth, no top remained,
Although he were not e'en a Jew,
Yet it had not been retained.

A bris-like nip and back it rolled,
Though doc said not "danke."
The mariner on doc did stream.
What kills not makes stronger.

He moves it now like a third limb
As it seeks out a host,
Such as one where a tongue doth sweep
Around a fressèd post.

And soon he felt a roaring wind
That came not from a cheer--
A mistral mouth's wanton exhale. ..
His yardarm hardly sere.

The buccal air burst him to life
As leftward he did lean,
In seamen's parlance, one would say "port"
As one did lingually retort.
To seep. Perchance to stream.

And the coming wind did roar more loud
As it steered him to the edge
Of climax as he proudly vowed
That he could deeper dredge.

His lip-smacked prow did jet its fill
Like moon-driven high tide,
Or waters shot from some high crag,
Leaving a swelled, vacated bag,
Then rivulets did slide

And from the wind-borne place did drip.
Again the lips moved on
To sheathe the rising manhood, hewn
Like wood. The throat, Tuvan.

He groaned, he stirred, he'd all uprose,
Spake not--gave only sighs.
It flailed and sailed, like a hooked bream
That from the deep'd arise.

The "elm" man felt his wood was sawed
By teeth as the wind blew.
He thought of a sharp saw that copes. . .
Can cut a joint in two.
He prayed his limb these dental tools
Wood not be going through.

His body now had twice been done
By one perched knee to knee.
The body now had a downward slope,
But she spake: "Goest three?!"

He feared, the Ancient Mariner,
There was no gesso left.
But when his pole was pumped again,
Like a courser, to life it came. . .
Regained its former heft.

To his sides down he dropped his arms;
She gusted 'round the mast.
He bounded quickly in the trough--
His rod be her repast.

Around, around, tongue on the crown
Out darted a large sum
(Slowly the man retracts again)
A minute maximum.

She said as it dropped from on high,
"'Twas a quite rapid fling."
"Thou dost know how to raise the bar
With a fillip of both tongue and air
And your meat jawboning!"

It had been like an instrument,
Like a large loaded flute
Of skin--a metaphor for dong.
"Ready for another toot?"

It leapt at her salacious yawn;
She then a hot breeze breathed
Then moved to schmooze upon the tip,
Which she teasingly teethed.

Then made a meal, a fathom deep,
Till the mist again would blow.
The bowsprit slid internally;
The maid's lisps made it grow.
A box-like boon, this proxy poon
Is filled again. "Yo, ho, ho!"

It slumped again, did his love mast
Into a downward motion,
But in a minute, it 'gan stir
As she squeezed on lubing lotion.
It regained half again its length
With an up- and downward motion.

Then like a pawing horse, let go,
She made a sudden bound
And flung her tongue onto the head
And wrapped it clear around.

How long she flicked it as he lay,
He's not fully aware.
But ere his fizz of life returned,
She burped and did a sideways turn;
It vaulted in the air.

Ten CCs, it spun, leaving the man,
Upward by wind 'twas tossed
Above the boat, until it smote
A passing Albatross.

And then they kiddeth amongst themselves
At avian hit by flow:
"Glad no PETA woman or man
Be on this boat, in tow."

Then said she, in a raucous voice
Expelled in windy whoosh:
"The moral: A bird hit by gland
That doth tube in the bush."