Post-coital youth, the vulgar truth
You never had a chance
Gonadic spume, ecstatic doom
Amusement in your pants

While on her back, a stealth attack
Asleep, she never woke
Her branches split, the fires lit
With each imagined stroke

Another came with seeds of shame
A conquest to renew
Beneath her dress, the weeds confess
You fled like morning dew

You hesitate to pollinate
A bloom without a stem
Your roots are gone, beneath the lawn
The pruning shears condemn

Oh native son, your race is done
(you never heard the starting gun)