The tyrannical rule of emotion
Oppresses me still;
Even if one loses "that lovin' feeling,"
The mental construct lingers
And begs for satisfaction.
What is a creaky old centaur to do?
The colts whinny by me,
Ablaze with high spirits;
The fauns and related fatuous fauna
Peer out from the bushes and yippie-yip-yip;
Past partners in crime write their memoirs
And blush the fake blushes of pious recanters.
My strut's been disabled by safety inspectors,
So now I'm no more than a wooden horse
That coasts down the ramp to the watering hole
Where once in my studdom I ballyhooed.
(If ever that mythical time was real.)
I've fallen again! Help me up, young upstarts,
And sidewind my crankbox of love
Once-twice-thrice!
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