I kinda like my Y chromosome–
I take him with me whenever I leave home,
no matter where or how far I roam.
As you may have guessed by now,
he’s the subject of this poem.
Without my Y, I’d have to watch
a lot less televised sports,
and I couldn’t wear cargo shorts.
You think I’m copping an attitude?
You don’t want to see me even partially nude.
I know a lot of folks groan at dad jokes,
but without the guys who make them
I ask you—where would we be?
There wouldn’t be any moms to tell ‘em–
to reproduce you need someone with a Y–like me.
No, I like my little Y guy,
I’m not going to tell him to beat it.
We play by our own rules:
When I drop food on the ground,
He says “Go ahead and eat it.”
We’ll leave the finer things in life
to the folks with two XX’s,
and thank our lucky stars that
that–at last count–
there were two sexes.
Gerbil News Network 
Only you, Mr. Chapman, knows the very best way to deal with the genes in your genes. Or, in your cargo pants. Just yesterday I had a conversation with a person who does research in cardiology and we talked about the XX and the XY. Where is the “third leg” on that Y? It might be hiding behind the zipper.
Sorry. I meant the genes in your jeans.
The Y is, by comparison to the big hulking X, a scrawny little guy.