You’re a Wanker

wanker

You’re a zipper-trout angler
Who’s nowhere near a creek;
You pound your flounder in anger
Every day of the week.

You enjoy wrestling your eel
As if you’re Jacques Cousteau,
And club your pud like a baby seal
Out on an arctic floe.

You’re a wanker.
Everyone can tell.
Yeah, yeah.
You’re a wanker.

You initiate a dolphin-flog
As if you hate cetaceans,
And shake the snot off your frog,
Despite its protestations.

You like to tame the shrew and how,
But not as Shakespeare meant,
And so frequently you milk the cow
That its teats are strangely bent.

You’re a wanker.
Jerking it like hell.
Yeah, yeah.
You’re a wanker.

You spank your monkey without break
As if it owed you dough,
And you so often charm your snake
You’re a pungi-playing pro.

For how much you chicken-choke,
You’re a chronic poultry-hater,
And with each burping gecko stroke,
You’re a better masturbator.

You’re a wanker.
At tossing, you excel.
Yeah, yeah.
You’re a wanker.

You pound your bald-headed moose
Until its antlers drop;
You tug your slug to harvest juice,
Sometimes for weeks non-stop.

Your one-eyed weasel taunts
Incite the thing to bite,
When on your epic jacking jaunts
That last throughout the night.

You’re a wanker.
You spank it so well.
Yeah, yeah.
You’re a wanker.

With no girlfriend, you can’t thank her
For what your hands impart,
But, sir, you’re a world-class wanker,
Whose handiwork’s an art.

You’re a wanker.
You’re a wanker.
Yeah, yeah, you’re a wanker.

You’re a wanker.
You’re a wanker.
Yeah, yeah, you’re a wanker.

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