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A
hundred million years ago, when sex was being
invented,
The mammals, looking for a way to keep themselves contented,
Evolved more copious penile skin, till every male was
wearing
A gliding sheath, a loose prepuce, a kind of rolling
bearing.
It kept their glanses moist and warm and sensitive and soft,
And made their sex so easy, if they could've they'd have
laughed.
But best of all, that folded tube was full of nerves for pleasure
And shot them into ecstasies that none of them could
measure.
And all was well for eons, till the human head grew large,
And some were slaves beside the Nile, and others were in
charge.
Perhaps some jealous Pharaoh who'd been born with not much
tassel
Said: "Cut them off!" They cut, 'cause that was safer than
to hassle,
And kept on cutting, even when that king was pyramided.
The custom spread, though they had long forgotten why they
did it.
And still throughout the Middle East, though no-one
understands it -
They say, but now with tongue in cheek, their jealous God
demands it.
And, strange to tell, this craze befell the English-speaking
nations,
While Europe and the Eastern world disdain
modifications,
And even Jews - a few - refuse to
to keep up the tradition:
"No god demanding cuts to putzes merits that position."
[From 2015: But in the days of Honest Abe and Queen
Victoria
Cutting boys was thought to curb self-induced-euphoria.
So John H Kellogg,
cornflakes king in manner calm and placid.
said “Cutting's good for naughty boys; for girls - carbolic
acid.”
And
only
when those boys were men, their solo joys forgotten,
Did cutting newborn
sons begin, parental wish or not -
And so the cutting custom changed to medicine from ritual
But one thing's constant – cutting boys has had to stay
habitual.]
The total in the whole world's less than 25 per cent,
And some are cut in surgeries, and some cut in a tent,
And some are cut for ritual, and some are cut for shame,
But when you cut the bullshit, domination is the game.
Of course, no-one would cut a child professing naked
power.
Instead, [a] five hundred different silly reasons
on us shower;
Excuses to reduce the male sex's pride and joy,
As cut ones take what they have lost, and never ask the boy:
"To make him look the
same as me," or "different from the others,"
"To make it bigger," "make it smaller," "make him like his
brothers,"
"To make him sexy," "make him chaste" or "tell the twins
apart,"
And when you shoot one reason down, a dozen others start:
"To save him from diseases, from the scourge of leprosy,
From STD and UTI
and also HIV,
From prostatitis, hernia and hydrocephaly
From rupture, and - of course! - from homosexuality."
And cutting them as babies makes sure none of them remember
The pleasure without measure given by an intact member,
Though men who lost their prepuces in adulthood would find
That having sex without one was like going colour-blind.
Well, now the custom's faded out in England and Australia,
And Kiwis and Canucks say postheëctomy's a failure,
But still one country where the foreskin's very seldom
dangled
Is the homeland of the brave and free, whose banner is
star-spangled.
For in the States at market rates, the scalpel's still
a-flashin',
A boy is born, his foreskin's shorn, the doctor rakes the
cash in -
And meanwhile by the back door, there's a lab-assistant
waiting
To take
the
skin and grow it, hefty fees anticipating.
And never mind that one boy's blind, and others end up dead,
And many lose their frenulum,
and some will lose their head,
And all of them are scarred
for life, and all lose some sensation:
"We've made them men, we've made them clean,
discouraged masturbation!"
And always it's presented as the parents' free decision,
But let a Mom's or Dad's opinion come into collision
With Matron's, doc's or in-laws', then they'll find they
have no voice,
As a none-too-subtle pressure makes
a travesty of choice.
"They'll mock him in the locker room!" the hapless parents
hear.
In fact, these days it's boys who're cut who'll have to face
that fear.
"He must look like his father," says his grandad, old and
wise -
Yet when Junior peeks at Daddy's, what he'll notice is its size.
And strange to tell, as through the boys the scalpels slice
and whirl,
Those self-same people think that to incise a little girl
Is horrible and cruel and a breach of human dignity,
And anyone who cuts them must be driven by
malignity.
[From half way round the
world, of little girls they hear the screams,
And rush to pluck out distant motes, ignoring their own
beams,]
But cutting boys is trivial, a snippy-snip, a circy,
a normal thing that all boys get from Maine to Blaine
to Albuquerque.
While near at
hand there grows a growl, a rising tide of anger,
From men who've found out what they've lost, and want back
all their whanger.
All is not lost. At [some small] no great
cost, [and] but trouble worth a mention,]
You can produce a new prepuce by
gentle, constant tension,
Which lacks the nerves, but still deserves careful
consideration;
A gentler way than surgery, more use than litigation.
The doctors fear the lawsuits - just
a few would make them poor.
They fear the judgement summonses, and bailiffs at the door
(Those gentlemen who ask them so politely: "May I trouble
you?
I've come to seize your golf-clubs, and your yacht, and
BMW").
[So they attack, distract,
fight back, with arguments ad hominem:
"They'll break into our surgeries, and then they'll put
a bomb in 'em!
Don't listen! They're extremists, on a
flap of skin fixating!
We know what's best!" but you'll have guessed,
it's writs they're contemplating.]
So here's an operation, done as often as one blinks,
That had its strange beginnings in the shadow of the Sphinx,
And carries on for reasons neither sound, humane, nor valid.
That story's told. I'll now unfold the moral of this ballad:
To cut a cock's a load of crock, no matter how they cut it.
These words beware: "Just sign down there." They'll try to
scare you but it
Would do your son a wondrous boon to treat them with
derision:
"You'd dock his dick? My God, that's sick!" To hell with
circumcision!
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