As I grow old, I like things sweet.
My appetite for good fresh meat
Is quickened when I sense the fear
In ladies sweet when I draw near.
These days I have no time to poach
My eggs. I’m frank in my approach.
Life’s much too short to wait and smile,
Too short for all that craft and guile
I learned when I had time to wait
For thighs and breasts to marinate.
These days I turn the gas up high
And when the skillet’s hot I fry
What I need just when I need
It—And sweet ladies, it’s not greed
That’s made me abandon those seductive
Games. One learns that more productive
And less time-consuming ways
Present themselves as precious days
Become more precious by the hour:
Art yields to exercise of power.
I’ve ceased to care if you desire
Me or detest me. While the fire
Burns under the spit, I’ll be true
To my appetite, and so will you.
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