He was pressed, almost squished,
Firmly against the steel wall.
The crowd was compressed,
And they made him stall.
Rubbing against their back,
Infused with body odor and heat,
He felt something — something hard —
Stirring down by his street.
Weenie was aroused, confused,
In an open, confined space;
Sweating sporadically from nervousness,
A smirk appeared upon his face.
He tried to restrain, to pull back,
With hopes to smuggle the rising sword.
"Ssssh — go to sleep, retreat now,"
They were too close; he failed somehow.