InterSEXion

You meant nothing to him - just a point on a crossroad,

A place where he stopped for a drink

And a pee, and a sandwich,

You meant less than the weed along the street,

And his tires left their marks on your sand,

And now he goes back to his land.

You were merely quick satisfaction,

And you're the kind he'd never choose,

A bottle of bad-quality booze,

Just an interSEXion.