Classic Poem

Ribald romeos less and less berattle
your shut window with impulsive pebbles.
Sleep—who cares?—the clock around. The door's stuck
stiff in its framework,
which once, oh how promptly it popped open
easy hinges. And so rarely heard now
‘Night after night I'm dying for you darling!
You—you just lie there.’
Tit for tat. For insolent old lechers
you will weep soon on the lonely curbing
while, above, the dark of the moon excites the
wind from the mountain.
Then, deep down, searing desire (libido
that deranges, too, old rutting horses)
in your riddled abdomen is raging
not without heartache
that the young boys take their solace rather
in the greener ivy, the green myrtle;
and such old winter-bitten sticks and stems they
figure the hell with.