The skin
On my feet
Has toughened with age.
Is it a sin
To think on the soft skin
Of the feet
Of young women
With whom I engage?
It can not be so
For to write a rhyme
Is no crime
And a girl’s feet are a fine
Sight at night,
With their legs bare
To the caressing air.
Although, having removed the stiletto
Shoe, I know
That girls have tough skin too.
As I listened to jaz
I felt a pang
As a young woman sang,
For I thought on the last time
I heard the jaz
In this place, with you,
So wrote a rhyme
As it was all I could do.
He spoke about a guy
Who tried to woo
A lady of 22.
And I,
Overheard every word
And wondered what it had to do
With him.
I don’t know,
Is it a sin
For a guy of 52
Or so,
To woo
A girl of 22?
I think
That if a guy
Of 52,
Wishes to buy
A drink
For a lady of 22
That it is nothing to do
With me or you.
“A fool and his money are soon parted”
The moralist will say. But, if that be true
And a man is brokenhearted,
I come back to
my original question, what has that to do
With me or you?
‘Tis a truth
Profound
That eternal youth
Can not be found
By middle-aged men who pursue
Girls of 20,
(But there are plenty
Who do).
The run
May be fun
And rings
And other such things
May a man buy
More than a look
From a young girl’s eye,
Which is sometimes mistook
By the old
For love.
Nothing comes after
Her brittle laughter
Save for more
Of the same, but the fool will not be told
The truth,
That with all his gold
He can not purchase eternal youth,
Though some already this fact
Know
But act
As though
It where not so
And continue to buy
Forced laughter
After each joke
On which they both, secretly, choke.
You left me alone
At the top of the street,
And I went home
While your feet,
Encased in shoes
You did not choose
To lose
Took you back
Down your own track.
Or perhaps I lack
The ability to understand
Your hug and hand.
Now I wait
And ponder on sense
And the present,
Or the past tense.
Is it too late?
A pointless question to state
Perhaps.
To collapse
Into meloncholy
Is folly.
I have a choice
To be morose
Or falsely jolly.
‘Tis better to use my voice
And ask than to drown
My frown
In a glass
Over a lass
Who may
Not think of me that way.
Lover or friend?
‘Tis better to know, than to pretend.
The devil is grinning
At man’s obsession
With women.
A confession,
I have been there
And looped the loop to please
A Claire
Or Flair.
The devil is grinning
When certain kind of women
On man’s weakness seize
And draw him in
To sin,
Or simply tease
By hinting that the prize may be won.
In search of fun
Men after women run,
Or desirous of the prize
Of that look
In a girl’s eyes
That says “you are mine
Until the end of time”,
Although this may be mistook
For “you are mine
For the night
But, come the morning light …”.
The devil is grinning
At man’s obsession with women.
The biological drive
Causes us to strive
For that lustful look in a girl’s eyes …
Although it is perfectly true
That there is love too.
There are many ointments
For stings
And similar things.
And, for life’s disappointments
There is art,
Which, though it may not cause the heart
To sing
May, perchance, ease the sting
Of the she
Who rejects thee.
