my turn at bat

shortly after birth,
though shy on exhibition
and long on inhibition,

I queued up for routine circumcision.

when came my turn at bat,
the surgeon flashed her blade
as she braced for mortal combat.

as should be expected,
I strongly objected:

I screamed and shouted for my life.

there was no time to chat
or be doormat diplomat,

though I once did yelp, “What’s that!”

she put away her knife
to obviate more strife.

I’ve been fully sexed e’er since—

though aft soaping shower
my impressive flower

I take great care to rinse.