A few days ago, I asked passengers to send me any TSA-dedicated poetry they may have. I did not believe that anyone would actually have a ready-made poem inspired by the Transportation Security Administration, but as I’m coming to find out, never, ever doubt the American people when it comes to strong feelings regarding their TSA. Pat wrote in:
‘Twas a night at the airport, when all through the gate
Not a creature was stirring, after all it was late;
Pat’s junk ‘twas hung ‘tween his legs with care,
In hopes the TSA agent soon would be there;
His cajones were nestled all snug in their sac,
Like teeny sugar-plums all out of whack;
Pat in his beard, and the Agent in his cap,
Had just settled down to look at Pat’s lap,
When out of the scanner there arose an alarm,
Diane was now seized; held by each arm.
An agent held up battery powered devices
And scolded Diane for indulging her vices
Her handcuffed wrists were glinting in the light
As Diane was hauled off to the agents’ delight,
The Agent returned to Pat, still in shock.
And said, “You can go, I’m not touching your jock.”
Pat’s eyes, how they fell. How could he be merry?
His chance was now gone to lose his TSA cherry!
But the Agent’s droll little mouth was drawn up in a grin,
As he reached his hand out, Pat warmed from within!
The Agent had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave Pat to know he had nothing to dread;
The Agent spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Feeling up both Pat’s legs; giving his willy a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of Pat’s junk,
He passed over his card, growling, “Better call me… punk!”
He sprang to attention, pointed Pat to his gate,
And said, “Hurry up! You’re going to be late!”.
Pat grabbed his bag and hurried away,
Shouting, “Thank you so much, you just made my day!”