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Geriatric Tryst
Arthritic fingers fumble
With the catches on your corset.
What a sight to behold,
You surely would be told;
The things that come to mind,
If only I could find
My glasses. What the heck,
Just lead me to your neck.
I'll nibble the nape
My affection to show
Just as soon as I stow
My teeth. What to do
With that shock of unruly hair?
Just set it anywhere.
Arise, Sir Knight,
Make haste,
For the dawn draws nigh,
And I
Am soon to enter
The Senior Center.
Such is the gist
Of a geriatric tryst
Which leads to a thought
Rather chilling:
How can we hope
To recapture lost youth
When the flesh is more weak
Than willing?
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Copyright © H. Paul Shuch, Ph.D.; Maintained by Microcomm this page last updated 14 June 2007 |
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