Alone in my room, I sit in my chair,
I'm wearing Obsession and Mousse in my hair,
I never admit I've not one single friend,
'cause I'm the life of the party in this cyber den.
In the real world I smell, and can never emote,
I cough on my words, I'm too young to vote,
I'm chubby and pimply, I'm rude and I'm crass,
and the only thing rippled is my pox-ridden ass.
I can't talk to women, I don't talk to girls,
when I try my large belly does back-flips and whirls,
Of sex I know nothing, and may never learn,
'cause pa found my skin-books and "Hustler" did burn.
I'm scared of my shadow, and still suck my thumb,
it's red and it's swollen, perpetually numb.
But with my trusty modem, I can quickly log-on
to a world full of ladies who call me "Hot-Don,"
Old Don's quite a player, a swinger, and a stud,
and, unlike me, won't vomit at the first sign of blood.
He's smooth with the ladies, his tongue is quite loose
He resembles a hybrid of Apollo and Zeus.
He's charming and witty, and really rich too,
and, unlike me, completed that Grade Number 2.
He chats with them coyly while I try if I can,
to go about my business and type with one hand.
My current liason is with 'HotBabyJane,'
A woman who, strangly, remembles "Seinfeld's" Elaine,
Oh how it would pain me to suddenly know,
that Jane's a fat barber from New Mexico.
Our writing is steamy but quickly it ends,
"Jane" (real name Maxwell) is gonna to miss "Friends"
I'm secretly sad, and mistakenly blurt,
"Man you chicks bug me, MY REAL NAME IS BERT!"
The night quickly passes, by morning I've found,
I've developed a longing for "Spot", my greyhound,
I should probably sleep soon, while partially sane,
but by midnight I'll be looking for "HotBabyJane."
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[This message has been edited by Poetwheel (edited 07-23-99).]