It raised its ugly head back then, pump-primed by adolescence
And stayed with me for donkeys’ years, but, sadly, not at present;
We’d catch the 61 Trent bus to Kirkby or to Sutton
In hopes of finding harbour for pubescent uphill mutton.
With teenage hormones surging through our veins it’s unsurprising
It’s not our brains that we thought with when lustful sap was rising;
It wasn’t chips we’d covet but we’d appetites like gluttons,
But sustenance was sparse indeed to sate our uphill muttons.
Our skillsets were most ill-equipped to bridge the variation –
That mismatch of libidos in the gender population;
So pickings they were slim at best, the girls were shy and frugal,
Which meant I spent time on my own, just me and my beef bugle.
And even when my fortunes turned on that rare occasion
With some girl from the Blind School and after much persuasion
My useless fumbling fingers failed each time to unbutton
Confusing layers of garments which would thwart my uphill mutton.
I seemed condemned to “lover’s balls”, hanging full and aching
With just one remedy for me that all my mates were taking
There was no internet back then with smut that you could google
Just “Spick and Span” with pages stuck from many a beef bugle.
These days it’s just a memory, both cruel and perverse,
For age has rendered flesh so weak the problem’s in reverse;
For now I have experience my passion to fulfill
But, alas, for me these days my mutton’s not uphill.
