They've got devious minds
That work one way.
They cannot keep their eyes high--
Kinda gay.

Dumb jocks play with Ben-Gay--
Some guy's supporter will be its home.
The empty cup's plied with
Fiery mentholatum. . .
They await 'im.

Then he blithely dons the strap,
Sack held high.
Deep inside the pain does rise;
"Yeow!" he cries.

Dumb jocks flay with Ben Gay.
They watch the guy jump and start to roam
The locker room, cursing these jocks--
They are his bane.
He's in great pain.

The pain increases now
Because rain
From a cold faucet pours down
On his twain.

Water reacts with Gay,
Exacerbating fire in his bone.
His red, steamed, fried c*ck
Looks like lox or slaughtered game;
He's feeling maimed.

At last he hides inside
A lone fart-infused stall.
The blist'ring has an upside:
It's not small.

He walks away, quite lame,
And ends up crawling back to his home.
Then sees a snide doc who's a jock
With this refrain:
"No pain, no gain!"