I overheard my neighbour asking Jesus to come now. People are here trying to kill the son of God twice.
I don’t talk about ’em balls to get girls, neither do I talk about them to entice women. I talk about balls because I own them.
I’ve held them in my palms, quizzed them, and gauged their pulse rate. We’ve held in-depth convos, disagreed, and made a truce.
I love them because they’re selfless. They never ask me why they never go in when the girls they seduced without intent show up. They are okay about staying outside. Even when they serve ’em proteins, they don’t ask to show a face.
They’re not like your MP who prints her face on Sanitary towels. Trust me, they don’t need cheap publicity.
They’re not like your woman who spreads her legs for you but severe your reputation in post-coital evaluation.
They’re not like your best friend who’ll spread your name after bailing you out.
And they’re not like your BFF who never shows up when you need them to.
Balls are philanthropists in small sacs. They give and give but never ask for much.
You talk about your Mercedes, or V8, or Subaru, or your wife. Let me talk about the marbles.
They have survived me.