A song (well, work in progress)

[peristaltor]

(Sung to the tune of "I Will Survive")

Nothing below my belt is a spectacle
Despite the elephantitis of the testicles

They only used to bruise my thighs when I walked around
Like a sac of padded clappers from the bells of Notre Dame.

But at the going rate
Of their growing rate
Soon my tibia and fibula will encounter barriers to my gait.

Do I exagerate?
Just you wait.

How many do you know
Who wear kneepads not for show
But to prevent the scrotum denting the patella -- they're that low.

Yes, it's droll.
They take their toll
But these monster balls block more than just the taking of a stroll

The product of these beasts
Which simply clambors for release
Is of adequate capacity to insure a floor that's fully greased.

Now imagine such a volume contained. . . .

Any woman riding such a flow would find her vagina sorely strained.
She could pop atop this boy
And, when these glans deploy,
She'd be shot right off my cock like some water rocket toy.

To control this spew
What could I do?
A waterbed-sized condom?

(I got nothing more)