(a lamentation)                                                                                                                       

                       Who would have thought that I,
-Who`d always worn the badge of what I was
Flagrant on my face - would turn dissembler,
Become - (would you believe it!) affable -
Sought after for advice - much given
To long and lonely walks with lonely hearts?

There was - I grant you - something of a thrill
Letting, in the deep, deaf glade the comforting arm
Grow stiff, the claw unclip, and the curling lip
Lay bare the fang - a modicum of titillation -
Watching surprise, then shock, then condescension
Soften through the pitying virgin`s eyes.

But where`s the contempt,  the bravura, in that,
The strut-a crashing monarch-through the brush, 
Where is the recklessness, the disregard?
Where is the laughter? How did it come to this:
That for the craving scrotum`s shrivelled sake
I grind out this mangled misery of days?