Way The Third
There exist just three persons;
we know well just two,
though real he may be,
Can know no more of us than we can of he.
And “Why?” you may ask,
“should this third be so queer?
Is this third person unlike the two of us, here?”
Under duress now,
I’m forced to concede,
since double entendre is easy to read
(Au Fait, en Français,
they spell it the same,
But in French it sounds erudite, clever, if tame.)
“Doobleh” they start,
Screwing up from square one
and then with “entendre” all breathy and ‘fun’
(well, depending on region,
inclination and tongue,
or tiny asymmetries deep in the lung)
an alveolar
exhaustion can quickly set in,
the glottis and uvula primed for a win
that may never come
even after bell’s rung
despite that the French are known to be hung
up on a matter
more sensitive yet:
The prepuce that guards their most sensitive tête
They honor its service by tossling socks
(I observed this myself in the men of langue d’oc)
The Libertine’s cause
of course serves a need,
a knead of the farmhands with surplus of seed
A wink and a grin
is all it would take,
since dubplay on tantra awakens The Snake,
It's metaphor,
yes, but no less contentious.
(There's another entendre for ‘snake’ - it's licentious.)
Redirecting our gaze now
to Troisième the Third,
such a queer one he is, fearing only one word;
See, if for some reason
maybe, out of the blue
a person, in error, might blurt out, “Oh, YOU!”
whereby in an instant
our third man, so fecund
suffers carnal demotion to a real ‘Person Second’.