Master holdit

You are young, master holdit
and the ink in your pen
runs as green  
as plantations for tea
you poke fun, master holdit
breaking rules as you peddle
poor smut  
but it's not poetry

Your testicle tales  
grow tiresome
the hairs on your balls  
don't impress
and each night you squat
fondling your member
leaves you blind  
to your writing prowess

If only you'd read  
half a sonnet
been caressed  
by the beauty of words
without that bee called sex  
in your bonnet
perhaps you wouldn't  
seem quite so disturbed