Warnings: Poetry all ending with the same sound. This is harder then it seems. LOL
I see Jim; he's standing straight as a stick.
I can tell from looking at him, he's no backwoods hick.
I asked if I could talk to him, I would make it really quick.
We wandered to the hall and leaned against the hard brick.
I tell him that I want to be known as Frack to his Frick.
I tell him that if I don't get him soon, I'll become sick.
I can't help it, I am caught staring at his mighty fine dick.
I whisper in his ear that I want nothing more than to take a lick.
He's trying to stay calm and not get hard, no small trick.
I look at him through his jeans and all I know is he is thick.
My god, no wonder Vice used to call him Slick.
Then I tell him, with my fingers, I want to touch his prick.
As they go by, they will softly give him a rub and flick.
To lighten the mood some, I ask if I could call him Rick.
And then said, "It's not Flied Lice, its Fried Rice, you Plick."
The end. Thank God before you say ick.
Oops, too late.