The Man With Three Teeth

For Sandy.



I once had a friend, who went to a far away land,

and on her journey she met a three toothed man.

A book of perversions he kept in his hand,

carpenters pencil and paper of sand.



What visions of pleasure had he in his head?

Of helpless old women tied up to his bed.

With no wife at home to cause him to dread,

a “do-it-yourselfer” his left hand instead.



He sat in his chair with pencil and pad,

sketching all the twisted thoughts that he had.

Any warm body would do for this lad,

the lady next door, her dog or her dad.



With quotes for the classmates he tries to impress,

a three toothed smile that stares at their breasts.

His cravings for flesh did cause him distress,

a drop of the pencil, a peek up a dress.



He delights in his classmates while taking this course,

a room full of women that he’d like to pork.

He thinks of them all while cocaine he snorts,

and dreams of a party he’d have in his shorts.



Through pop-bottle glasses he stares at fresh meat,

wretched and perverse from his head to his feet.

A creative writing class is sure hard to beat,

for the man with three teeth.