You are the chief synonym of ego,
If ‘I’ and ‘Me’ just can’t go incognito
And if the only tool in your tool box is testosterone,
Then your greatest ambition would be cancerous fun.
Our remixed smile in the face of danger
Fingers our longing to live longer
Yet we fallow and plan and expect a harvest without seed
But that’s possible, if all you need are just weeds.
We amass trophies of carnal memories
And our greatest conquest is of female bodies
Over round tables and in dim lit pubs,
We trade jokes of how well she sobbed.
There’s more to male than just macho
And your future is not a chance at a game of lotto,
You are not just a ‘Y’ gene or M gender,
You are the saving hope of an unborn gangster.
You are male at birth,
Please be a man, before death!
