The Tripod of Priapus
 
Two hens came trooping from their coop;
Each launched a raunchy wad—
Alas, their way could never sway
The rod that girds this god.
 
First, Paula worked to twerk my tongue
(Or, possibly, my jewels)—
You wily girl, the rhymes you hurl
Might fell the tools of fools—
 
But I, however, stand alert,
Erect and yet unbowed,
So much, you see, my legs are three,
A tripod, high and proud.
 
Then, Dawn’s riposte proposed to try
Some willy-nilly tricks,
A product built to wilt my stilt—  
The Priapus of pricks.
 
You’ll never clip or trip me up
Or set my piece to bending;
And neither age nor female rage
Will see my peak descending.
 
Saltpeter? – please! —you make me laugh!
Potassium abound!
It keeps my big banana rig
From dragging on the ground.
 
Pray tell, what other ways and means
Can satiate the reader?
What might defeat my mighty sweet
And salty haughty peter?