It starts at once. A little man
discovers that his little stream
shot upwards willy-nilly can
produce a corresponding scream.
The tender mom, the doting dad,
in spite of being rather pissed
will chuckle at the little lad,
his tummy will be rubbed and kissed,
and, handed round for show-and-tell
to beaming uncles, cooing aunts,
he learns he need not speak or spell.
The power’s in his underpants.
And though some laurels he may win
for greater mind and braver heart,
the worthiness he feels within
will hang upon that single part.
Poor fellows. Enemies and friends
of male persuasion share the doubt.
The primal contest never ends,
but they forget what it’s about.