A miserable Boomer
Had drooples
And wobbles
That got up inside of his head.
The ads on the TV
Said “Just listen to me!
I’ll help you get back in her bed.”
He worried his member
Might wilt ‘til September
Or even November
(the following year)
It wasn’t his vision
To see a physician
(Besides, the copay was insane).
A shrink was expensive,
The thought made him pensive
The fault couldn’t be in his brain.
But lack of tumescence
Was such an excrescence
This failure of essence
Just filled him with fear.
But what could a Boomer
With drooples
And wobbles
Do to provide him a cure?
The mail-order potions
The capsules and lotions
Were all of them equally sure
And yet at the junction
Of pill and dysfunction
The patented unction
Provided no quo for the credit-card quid.
And so he decided
His woes coincided
With things being done to all guys
By women of #meToo
And liberals who blew
All Y chromosomes to the skies
He needed a figure
Of bluster and vigor
To make him feel bigger―
And that’s why he voted the way that he did.
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