I surely have a tale to tell,
How surly limbs left me unwell.
Although they feel as though they’re here,
When down I look they disappear.
And thus they’re called my phantom limbs.
Excuse me while my tale begins:
Some severed toes, the first to flee.
A poor insurance policy.
The rest were bested by disease.
All diabetic casualties.
My feet were next to leave the scene.
They foot the bill for Ole Gangrene.
My legs ensued, inclined to whim.
Perhaps a shark taught them to swim.
My foreskin followed, woke surprised.
Its fear fulfilled, I’m circumcised.
My cock was lopped and tossed afield.
Thank God, Lorena stopped and squealed.
My balls ascended far from here,
To Tiny Tim’s castrato-sphere.
My pubic hairs won’t write me back.
The crabs, they miss their habitat.
One arm eloped with Allen, Rick’s.
The other’s still between two cliffs.
Then hands abandoned arms to be
The Addams’ Thing in sequel three.
But digits split, production fell
To the pit of development hell.
And now my hands are just like me.
Prince Randian of circus Freaks.
Alas, my head was last to go,
But not before my features though.
My ears were sheared by Vega, Vic.
Both eyes were plucked by Beatrix.
As for my face, the Lector planned
A part in Silence of the Lambs.
I made the cut like Lou Sixteen.
Without reprieve, the guillotine.
Well, that concludes my gruesome tale.
I meant to warn you, but I failed.
Although some say I’m still a man,
I’ve figured out just what I am.
Not pillow man, not amputee.
I’m really God’s The Giving Tree.