My wife now gets the breakfast in bed she always wanted.
Eggs, bacon, waffles, and my crushed testicles. servered cold
just like her. she took them years ago, now she can eat them.
blood drenches my pajama front, as rubber bands stop me from bleeding out of my ruined groin.

tray in hand I walk gently towards my sleeping queen.
as I stop at the closed bedroom door and rap oh so slight.
with a soft tone she anwsers, come in.
and I do, exclaiming as I walk towards my dearest.
my love breakfast is served.

vincent armone

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crushed-testicles/