UnPoetia:Wanke et Wankorum est

Poetry for people who hate poetry

Bent double, like old wankers under sacks,

Knock-kneed, wanking like hags, we wanked through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we wanked on our backs

And towards our distant rest began to wank.

Men marched wanking. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all wanking;

Drunk with wanking; deaf even to the hoots '

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that wanked behind.

Wank! Wank! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,

Massaging the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and wanking,

And wanking like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him wanking.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, wanking.

If in some smothering dreams you too could wank

Behind the wagon that we wanked him in,

And watch the white eyes wanking in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of wanking;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the sperm

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted genitals,

Obscene as wanking, bitter as the wank.

Of vile, incurable sperm on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not wank with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate wanking,

The old Lie; Wanke et Wankorum est

Pro patria Wanki.