Old Pickle
He lies on his bed in the rest home -
the old man that nurses all there
have given the nickname Old Pickle.
(Of course they've seen beneath his underwear.)
Like greenish blue cheese
bulge the veins of his legs.
By this stage of his life,
he wished they were pegs.
He once was as smooth as mozzarella,
melting every woman with his smile.
Now his body is crumbling away.
His smell is somewhat barn-yarn vile.
Old Pickle loves the pretty nurses.
Amazingly, he can get it up still.
Bemoaning his looks, he lies in his bed,
wishing it weren’t all such a big dill.
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