Though teenage and mottled, 
Your pubescent skin
Can only get better, 
But there on your chin, 
Two pores, 
One clear, 
One clogged up and bloating, 
Boiled up a plot
Of this spot exploding…

The unblemished pore
Sighed deep, clean and pure, 
“I ain’t gonna lie, 
You look miserable mate, 
Poor pore, so red raw, 
Just exfoliate! I’m sure
That greasy Belinda, 
Her oily face, 
Her sebum in swathes, 
Her gunky embrace
Gets dumped pretty soon, 
I know that’s the cure! 
Plus, her hair smells
And looks like
It once walked on all fours.“ 

What could be done? 

The next time that Lucy
Came at you at Scouts, 
You pouted and winced
And in came that snout, 
You felt all that grease
Whilst her tongue licked your tonsils
Her nose pressed into
That dip by your nostrils, 
But as she pulled back
A CRACK! in your skin, 
The suction, the pressure, 
Released deep within, 
The pore next door
Threw with brute force
A fountain of custard, 
Like hollandaise sauce
Your pores were so happy
They weeped yellow years, 
And you’d stay a virgin
For another few years.