I’ve always considered my body

A shrine or a temple of sorts,

Honed to perfection by exercise

Like snooker and other pub sports.

But lately I’ve noticed a blemish

To mar my immaculate bod,

So I’m starting to look like John Prescott

And less like a Classical God.

Besides being most unsightly

They’re open to much ridicule,

A feature that’s rather less welcome

Than a turd in a swimming pool.

I refer, of course, to my man boobs

(The laughter’ll have you in fits)

Women used to look at my etchings

Now they ask to look at my tits.

They’re starting to get so saggy and low

I can’t fool the opposite sex

Into believing they’re not boobs at all

But a fine set of masculine pecs.

I’ve thought about cosmetic surgery

Instead of “Do-Nothing-and-Moan”;

The choice that I face is having them off

Or enhancing with that silicone.

It’s a hell of a disadvantage

Strutting a ladies bust,

But there is one thing that I’ve noticed,

In fairness there is a small plus.

They’re saving me quite a fortune

What I’d spend at the pub on wine;

See, I stay at home on an evening

And play with them all of the time.