Mag Stash (an autobiographical poem)

I was raised on back issues of Hustler magazine
That Freaky Larry Flint gave me hope and stoked my dreams
Formed my definition of what it is to be "obscene"
It took me thirty years to find out what it really means

Stocked weiners in the cooler for a soft porn dealin' friend
A bag of tittie mags was my off-the-books stipend
He may have been damn lazy but you always could depend
He filled those bags so you'd be sure to do it all again

By Freshman year in my high school I had a big ole box
Filled with dirty magazines and a few clean white crew socks
I thought I hid 'em pretty good, I didn't need no locks
And anyone who stumbled upon 'em was in for quite a shock

One summer I went to church camp to exorcise the thoughts
Of Larry Flymt's corrupt ideas I'd so naively bought
But me and God we struck a deal, though it didn't seem we ought
Traded my soul for a centerfold and all the joy it brought

I was at that camp for over a week but it didn't seem so long
Listening to preachin' and fat guys singing their favorite gospel songs
When I got back the house was dark, I knew something was wrong
Checked my secret hidey hole, MY GIRLIE MAG STASH WAS GONE!!!

Never asked my mother cuz she'd seemed so unaware
Never asked my pa cause he was hardly ever there
Never found out where they went, they disappeared into thin air
And it was a long long long long long long time til I could say I didn't care