Maecenas, old crony, tutelary saint–
begs the question:
a compatriot would certainly reveal
with outright honesty,
should on occasion I
all too eagerly endeavor
towards tendencies too intrusive,
too obtrusive, too obtuse,
too invasive, too pervasive,
any intimation inadvisedly,
baser instincts my strict composure shamefully belied?
Many a remedy,
agrarian and aesculapian alike,
have been employed in a vain attempt
at quelling concupiscence
and consciously condemning a crush–
efforts not unnoticed, undoubtedly.
When schadenfreude remains masked
in an obloquy deemed unselfish concern,
kindness lacks compassion and
acronical courtships lack a familiar ring.
Habit drowns sorrows in sweetmeats and sauce,
but they don’t sell bottled courage in this county.
Can one really blame a jaded jade who,
from virgin to vamp to virago,
always mistook anger for ardor
and warning for wit?
For the bawd and the bard
dawn arrives in painful waves;
Wordsworth would be unwholesomely well-pleased.