Patience, Friends, and you will learn
'bout the aptitude test of the School Of Sperm.
The test is a marathon
--a swimming race--
where the fittest of 'em all'll win the grace
of a cute little Egg in a hie-thee place.

Little ones, big ones, shorts, and talls
mix en mass in pre-race Balls,
swinging to the measure of the dive's locale
hard on the entry to Uterine Canal,
eager to compete in the coming travail:
All but one will surely fail.

All are seeds from first to last:
But it won't matter who's first, who's last:
Who's in the lead may later be passed.
All depend on the strength of tail,
little bit of chance, lot of stamina,
who's got the future
in the present anima.
But if they lack potential spunk
ALL of 'em'll flunk!

Each Sperm counts in this tour de force,
on the crest...or in the trough.
Any one could be the next one's source,
so one at another does not scoff.

Frenzy mounts as Tension builds...
Bounding waves of Consumate thrills...
Engulf the gate to the inner course...
And the gun goes off!

Through the spillway they all spurt,
This-way-that-way they all squirt.
They don't note the end of each:
Some get squished out
through the breach
just to dry out on the beach;
Some get tangled in the locks,
squeezed and squashed
against the rocks;
Many get lost and blunder their heading,
fall into the worst of dreading,
struggle bravely as they sink,
find too late they're on the brink
of becoming stains on the under bedding.

Most cannot but meet their doom
long before they reach the womb:
But those with power in their youthful swishing;
Who do not cower at commercial fishing;
Who'll plant the flower of genetical wishing
--one way or another way,
by chance, design, or tricks--
Will navigate the dower Cervix
And penetrate the bower Matrix.

No time to rest nor to rejoice:
Two possibilities remain.
They cannot make a certain choice:
Their sensibilities must reign.

There in the arc of The Mother Church
Two passages, atwain:
One to the left, one to the right.
But only one can one Sperm search
And glorious union gain.
That one leads to the winner's delight,
With second-place left in the lurch.
The other would lead to the losers' bane:
They'd only traverse a barren site.