Classic Poem

Lying with unstable pego 'twixt a brace of vigorous boys,
Phoebus what's the little game that all your leisure time employs?
I should guess, but contradicting rumours from your friends, odd rot 'em,
Check the surmise that you open to these vigorous youths your bottom;
Rumour with its hundred tongues, that tells us you're not up to fucking,
Tells us that you are not buggered; what's then left for you but sucking?