What happens in the old bore's head?

Dreaming of the old whore's bed?

Enjoying when the old whore moans

to stimulate an old bore's groans.

Are poems in there still unread,

or hungry thoughts as yet unfed?

No, brain cells drowned in cloying wine

and turgid thoughts more coarse than fine.

The shame inside this old bore's head,

a path in life that none should tread.

Though gleaming gems have shone his way,

their black, burnt hopes now long decay.

Skulking in The Olde Boar's Head,

bar propping with a scowl to dread.

Hormones long ago dried up,

no comfort now but lonely cup.