Its me X – the female chromosome
Has a fetish to be handcuffed
To the Y chromosome.
To make those testicles grow
Into meaty dim sums.
And it becomes an equation
Of biology, X with X or X with Y.
Oh darn, can we settle
For a hermaphrodite?
And still X is the factor
Of my wife’s behind, it roars
In silence and in nuclear farts
And still it drives me nuts.
X is the X-mas tree, the smell
Of pinewood leaping out
Of little thorny leaves.
Embellished with baubles
And a pinnacle star.
And have you ever wished
For X-ray vision when
Tiffany Amber Thiessen walks in
On TV? And you’re so wet
You’re thinking of the S word – seX.
And X is the modus operandi
Of forms and surveys. It always fits into a boX.
Which draws me to think
Inside the boX in my boXer shorts.
I’m X and you’re the Y honey,
When we add up, its always equal to one.
Flesh that is in confluX.
And Honey, aren’t we louder
Than a boomboX?
And X, is just the 24th letter.
It makes little words like ox and axe
On the scrabble board. But the best thing
About it though, is it adds up
In a text message. I love you Michelle.
And those Xs are meant to be kisses.
The seXy type. And I hope to god, we never drift, like
X factor becoming ex-factor.
And Honey, can we make our story up
As we eXtrapolate love,
Till X= eternity.