Hey Fiddle Fiddle

He fiddled with his foreskin, pulling the taunts over The tip of his nose, it still stung, from when Gary Mother****in' Jackson (a strapping lad who insisted this should have been his middle name, after taking up a pool job one summer) Had pushed him, rather abruptly into the bushes, and those branches Feeling like hands, poked and prodded into the depth's of his skin and he'd walked Through that day, red and welty, like an overgrown zit.