The man who really loves birds.
...by resident hyaena


I've a story to put into words
a fantasy, in nouns and in verbs.
Some may rant and may scream
but it's all just a dream
of a man who really loves birds

A call, unfulfilled for so long
drew a man to a well hidden pond. 
His passion for birds
ran deeper than words.
He grabbed him a big, healthy swan

He held it in an up-ender
and looked underneath for it's gender.
No sign of a pole, 
just an anus-like hole. 
Big, firm and strong, yet so tender

He gazed and he gaped at that vent
He felt that his heart would be rent. 
With a kiss, then a shiver, 
he sweated a river, 
his penis was pitching a tent.

He readied to bury his meat,
but not 'till he'd had him a treat. 
First he would suck,
then he would fuck.
Their urine, he knew, tasted sweet.

With no one to see or to hear,
he buried his face in it's rear.
How much time he then spent
on sucking it's vent
was something that wasn't too clear.

He sucked and he sucked on that bung,
he probed, and caressed with his tongue.
His passion was burnin'
he was begging for urine.
Thick, creamy white, not like dung. 

The vent, it puckered and grew.
It squeezed, and let loose in a spew.
Thick, hot and sweet,
a most wonderful treat.
A joy known to only a few.

But as he was sucking the swan, 
the bird made a much deeper bond.
It buried it's tail,
and revealed it was male, 
a corkscrew, four inches long!

It humped and it moaned and it screamed.
It's tail might explode, it did seem. 
It thrust and everted,
it shuddered and squirted,
and filled up his mouth full of cream.

He lay with the swan on his thigh.
So joyful, he started to cry.
And he savored the flavor,
while returning the favor,
cumming, 'till he had run dry.

So ends this collection of words.
To most it disgusts and disturbs.
But in search of a vent,
my life will be spent.
The man who really loves birds.