From its crinkly foil tomb it emerges at last,

A rubbery knight in latex so vast.

You tear it with teeth (or finesse, if you’re skilled),

And suddenly—wham!—the aroma is spilled.

It hits like a ghost from a forgotten gym sock,

A chemical whiff that says, “Ready to rock!”

Part hospital hallway, part new balloon’s sigh,

Part “Grandma’s old raincoat left out in July.”

There’s a hint of petroleum, slick and obscene,

Like tires in a garage mixed with something unclean.

A faint rubber-band tang with a powdery note,

And the ghost of a factory where dreams go to coat.

It’s not quite cologne, nor a candle called “Lust,”

More like “Eau de Safety” – in God we trust.

Your nose does a double-take, wrinkles in shock,

While your brain whispers, “Buddy… proceed with the glock.”

Yet onward you roll it, heroic and bold,

Ignoring the scent that could wake up the old.

For love (or just friction) demands this small price—

That weird rubber perfume, so sterile, so nice.

Ah, freshly unpacked, you magnificent thing,

You smell like protection… and faintly like string.

So here’s to your odor, both funky and pure—

Without you, dear condom, we’d all be unsure!

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5856481&forum_id=2Reputation#49813266)

Of heedless heat when reason’s mute,

Sing, Heavenly Muse, though not too near,

For here the subject’s strange, yet dear:

Not war, nor Heaven’s rebellious host,

But that small sheath men need the most.

Say first what cause, in passion’s blaze,

Moved mortal flesh in fumbling haze

To reach, mid-swoon and partial undress,

For crinkling aid in near-distress;

And how, from foil with sacred snap,

There came Salvation in a wrap.

Hail, pliant ward! Hail, glossy ring!

Not born for pomp, nor fashioned king;

Yet throned in nightstands, drawers, and coats,

Above the rashest human votes.

For when the blood its counsel wins

And all wise governance thence thins,

Thou, little minister of sense,

Stand’st posted at the gates of consequence.

No trumpet hailed thy first debut,

No cherub choir thy virtues knew,

No sculptor carved in marble fine

Thy rolled circumference divine.

What artist dares, with brush sublime,

Immortalize thy latex prime?

Who paints the glistening prophylact

And calls it high aesthetic fact?

Yet still thy office must be praised,

Though brows be damp and bedsheets crazed.

For in that hot, ungoverned hour

When impulse swells to tyrant power,

When trousers lie like kingdoms sacked

And dignity grows sorely cracked,

Thou enter’st not with sultry air,

But like an auditor: severe.

Then Lust, that loud usurping lord,

Would storm the keep without accord;

But thou oppos’st his lawless drum

With stern rebuke: “Good sir, not dumb.”

Thou check’st the siege, thou stall’st the charge,

Thou keep’st tomorrow’s dread at large.

A paltry membrane, some would sneer—

Yet cheaper far than childcare, dear.

O how the mighty curse thy name

In that brief pause before the game.

For none, inflamed and half undrest,

Cries, “Lo! bureaucracy is best.”

No fevered swain in accents honeyed

Hath moaned, “By Heaven, how well-planned moneyed.”

No ravening heart, in amorous riot,

Desires procedure, thought, or quiet.

And still, despite complaint and scoff,

They bless thee once the lights are off.

What art thou then? A rubber law.

A modest “Wait.” A moral “Haw.”

Not pleasure’s prince nor Venus’ pet,

But consequence management, and yet

How many boasts, how many smirks,

Depend on thy unlovely works.

Thou art to lust what brakes are speed:

Annoying till the hour of need.

See now the mortal male in heat,

With swollen pride and uncertain feet,

Who deems himself some conquering ram,

Yet can’t locate the thing worth damn.

He paws through drawer and coat and sock

As doom ticks softly on the clock.

Then—miracle!—thy foil he finds,

And sudden piety fills his mind.

Not all the hosts of upper air,

Nor all the saints invoked in prayer,

Bring quicker gratitude than thou

When panic beads the shining brow.

For many a man, all bold before,

Hath gone half-white at Nature’s door

And seen in one small wrapped device

The market price of being nice.

But woe to him, rash Adam’s heir,

Who tries with teeth thy pack to tear,

Or fumbles thee in backward pride,

Or lets conceit his hands misguide.

For Comedy, that watchful sprite,

Loves most the overconfident night;

And thou, though blameless in intent,

Art often witness to mismanagement.

Still be thou honored, awkward shield,

In wallet bent or bedside field.

Though never star of song or dream,

Thou sav’st the plot from sequel’s scream.

No laurels crown thy humble sum,

No bards grow rich from singing “condom,”

And yet this verse, though strange and dumb,

Now lays a wreath where none hath come.

So let high Heaven record it plain:

Among the checks on mortal brain,

When appetite would proudly plod

As though exempt from law or God,

There dwells in foil, with rolled-up grace,

A thin, unsung defender’s place.

Then sound, ye bedsprings, beat, ye drum—

All hail the freshly opened condom.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5856481&forum_id=2Reputation#49813286)

Dripping flaps so gooey and pink

Open them up, inhale the stink

Rotten fish fills the room

Long after you coom

You can't wash it off in the sink

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5856481&forum_id=2Reputation#49813460)

There once was a lass named Delilah,

Whose nether regions caused quite the upheaval.

It wasn’t just “musky” or “earthy” or “ripe,”

It was full-on biological weapon-type.

When she uncrossed her legs in the heat of July,

Strong men dropped like flies, gasping “Oh my!”

The dog ran away, the cat filed for divorce,

And the goldfish turned belly-up, gasping “Of course.”

Her boyfriend tried Febreze, Lysol, and prayer,

He even consulted a priest in despair.

But the funk had a presence, a soul of its own—

It moved in like family and refused to be shown.

Scientists gathered with goggles and masks,

Declared it a new element: “Vaginium Gas.”

It could peel paint, wilt flowers, and clear out a room,

While making old cheese whisper, “Girl, you perfume?”

She tried every wash, every cream, every trick,

But the smell just smiled back: “Honey, I stick.”

So now she walks proudly, a biological queen,

With a force field of funk that’s uniquely her scene.

And if you dare date her, just know what you’ll get:

A love that’s forever… and eyes that won’t forget.

For Delilah’s aroma is legend and lore—

A weapon of mass seduction… or chemical war.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5856481&forum_id=2Reputation#49813502)