Poor and dismal old age
is your book’s saddest page
which demands
much courage,
indeed.
Your beloved dear face
has become a disgrace
to the whole human race
and your breed.
Once so fresh and attractive
visage
now sends quite a different
message
something like
"Ladies dear, keep away!"
Gone is youthful
explosive power
that so easily
hearts
overpowered
(not exclusively female).
What is left
is the sad understanding
that it’s time
to give up
your standing
as a glorious ladies’ man.
Time has come
to count your losses –
eyes are dull
while the scalp is glossy.
"Game is over,
I’m sorry, ma’am!"
Yes, of course, there are still
some pleasures –
brain’s endeavors
without any measures,
comprehension
that strikes
like levin.
You may still be enjoying
your dinner –
your potage,
your Bordeaux
with your Wiener.
But you’ll never
feel happy
again.
Casanova knew this,
so did Goethe,
Pushkin sure would have hit
the bottom
had he lived to his seventy odd.
Only dudes
who were neuters
as fledglings
might be spared
those woes
of aging.
But just who
would prefer
such a lot?