Hear ye voyeurs of wrinkled crotch
For a clue I shall divulge.
Direct your gaze, when fate allows,
To Jon Hamm's massive bulge.
Here ye shall find sane Men go Mad
And tailors scratch their heads,
For no pants can hide that forthright snake
(No need for infrared).
So if Fortuna ye doth bless
With a glimpse of Jon in wander,
Sate yourself on that cloaked cock
For unsheathed, ye shant view the Hammaconda.
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