The Village Smithy Henry da Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny groin Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His bulge is thick with a massive prick, He cruises where'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he plows most any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his wet mouth blow; You can hear him pump his heavy meat, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the precum is drooling low.

And young men coming from the fields Look in at the open door; They love to feel his massive chest, And feel his wetness in their throats, And catch a glimpse of his massive loins As they swing under his apron.

He goes on Saturday to the bar, And walks among the men; He hears the bartender pray and preach, He hears the buggar's voice, Singing in the backroom throng, And it makes his cock rejoice.

It sounds to him like his uncle voice, Telling him to be quiet! He needs must think of him once more, How he learned to take it like a man; And with his haul, rough hand he wipes Some spit to lube himself.

Screwing--juicing--cumming, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some man arrive, Each evening makes him cum. Someone attempted, someone done, He earned another notch.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my manly friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming cock of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning ass and cock.

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