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What happened to my sex drive?

(sung – in a round pussy willow warble - to the tune of -- 
Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone).

Once pronounced libido of mine 
took kamikaze nose dive,
whereby about two thirds of mein kampf ago,
I yearned to be sought after beaux
yet as severely socially 
anxious and withdrawn lad
present day ofttimes repeated laments 
find me to crow
slamming self NOT losing 
my virginity at a precocious ago,
cursing lack of tangible results courtesy 

feeble attempts delivered deathblow
to a fragile ego, 
and now only 
as a married celibate sexagenarian
dearth of rutting thoughts 
along the unforgettable lines sketched out 
by storied author Eugene O'Neill  
includes lustful and romantic desire, 
largely illustrated by the relationship 
between Eben and Abbie 

hashtagged within tragedy 
Desire Under the Elms 
ricochets with salient significance 
an attempt by O'Neill 
to adapt plot elements 
and themes of Greek tragedy 
to a rural New England setting 
inspired by the myth of Phaedra, 
Hippolytus, and Theseus, 
which story of five characters 
on a rural farm 

in 1850s' New England,  
how their lives  
both pushed together 
and pulled apart 
by their conflicting desires
such aboriginal, primal, 
optimal, animal, et cetera characteristics 
once figuratively bounces 
hither and yon, to and fro
within testosterone 
powered windmills in my mind. 

With a flame boy hunt 
deft jais nais sais quois 
firm lickey split tongue
and two bell yule yar pissant 
little nippy nappy noopy ruck berry 
filled up paul ling sacks 
viz peppy la pew doth not peter out, 
and weathers clawed rained swipes 
from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung
assisting climbing Jacob's ladder 

(without pussy footing, 
orb bing a putz like the president) 
advancing quick to attain orgasmic rung
while heading into a slippery sloping sluice 
(with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill 
smooth sailing along a  
re coarse upon phallic shaped pung
crossing la brea tar pits (peppered 
with lai bee ha tricky 
bridge over the River Kwai) 

comprising ideal place de la resistance 
to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate, 
where two puckered 
rill lee fleshy ruffling rills 
tinged pinkish lips overhung
a challenging escarpment, 
where many a brave 
Tom, Harry or Dick get hung
up, particularly while searching 
for fabled “G” spot, 

Fear of Flying (a bildungsroman 
whose central theme couched
in the search 
for self-discovery) by Erica Jung
cuz portcullis hamstrung
even the most fiercely determined 
Engelbert Hump per dink
necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver 
as most studs know tubby gelandesprung

though booby prize 
wool worth any slimy setbacks, 
where sticky gook gets flung
from angry cat, 
who does not in the least find amusing, 
and if further pricked with rage 
not averse to hurl dung 
gar (with) ease at snaky, 
retractable hardened foo fighting
 
beastie boy twill clung
for dear life and limb 
(er, or twig and berries),
while applying crampons (bivouacked 
within his maxipad), viz bung
gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove 
screwed and hammered out 
by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled, 
kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among
pheromone laced verboten fruit.
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