At the bar, hope of losing loneliness
He sits lap open, speaking to bosom
Sweet beer and cigarette half promises.
Not much less lonely, she banter-beckons.
A waif wafts by luring with service call,
A waif wafts by luring with service call,
Prim, youthful incarnation of left hopes,
Muse of images both clean and carnal,
Elder prey loosing gaze, she turns; he mopes.
No hope of groping the fecund lass,
No hope of groping the fecund lass,
Scorning this instinct for replication
(Lust refusing to age along with bones)
He smiles cheap hope, asks for another one.
The warm quarter dregs of the pint-glass quaffed;
The warm quarter dregs of the pint-glass quaffed;
The sum of mangled maturity’s cost.
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