If My Fingers Were Really Penises

"Ey." (This is me, getting ready to make a nuisance of myself.)
"Yeh?" (This is an unsuspecting victim.)
"If my fingers were really penises, would you still talk to me?"
"No."
"Really? Come on!"
"Make that 'Oh, hell, no.'"
"Don't you want me to run my ten dainty penises down your back?"
"Er...."
"Or I could tangle them in your hair..."
"Augh."
"...wrap them round your hand...."
"Stop that!"
"Hey, if my fingers were penises, and I took off my gloves in public, would that be indecent exposure?"
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

The ladies' locksmith I would be--the key to every box--
If, in the place of fingers ten, my hands had sprouted cocks.
I'd have a wee one on the end, to soothe the timid lass,
(Or, if I favoured frightened gents, perhaps the timid ass.)
A long one in the middle, and a fat one on the end:
A tumid thumb tautology with G-spot-tickling bend.

And fancy all the fun I'd have, at other folks' expense!
The quaint salutes* I would affect; the greetings I'd dispense!
If you roared through the stoplight, though 'twas I that had the green--
I'd swift express my outrage with a gesture most obscene.
Or if, upon the grassy verge, I should be cast aside,
I'd stroke my thumb until it stood and signaled for a ride.

A handshake like a has-been trout might seem a trifle rude,
(I'd offer an alternative, but then you'd find me lewd.)

My trousers gyved all neat and prim, upon the Sabbath day,
I'd plant my knees upon the bench and lift my hands to pray.

And if I saw you 'cross the room, and wished your company,
I'd tuck my thumb into my palm, and whangers one, two, three--
And with my last erect appendage, gesture: "Come with me."

* "Quaint" salutes; "queynt" salutes--wink-wink, nudge-nudge.... (The only crudeness worse than making a horrible pun is making one, and then calling attention to it.)