Red Mosquito

Oh, Coach was a man of wisdom and grace,
A legend who vanished without a trace.
He spoke of the scale, the throne, the sweat—
But most of all, of getting his dick wet.

From Red Mosquito, his words would flow,
Tales of passion, tales of woe.
Counting calories? Sure, that’s neat,
But conquest was sweetest when found in the sheets.

Through Tinder, through bars, through late-night calls,
He chased desire in bathroom stalls.
A scholar of lust, a poet of sin,
A champion of slipping it in.

Then one day, his posts ran dry,
No parting words, no last goodbye.
Did love at last ensnare his soul?
Or did he just grow tired of the scroll?

Still, we wonder, still, we yearn,
For Coach’s wisdom to return.
May his scale be light, his stomach tight,
And his nights forever filled with delight.