Wasted

Beard in fashion. His comely face still the cynosure- the attraction. Eyes as bright as candles. Teeth as clear as marbles. The disco lights were all he craved And to wine,he had become enslaved Pipes and cigar were his life Mistresses he sought and not a wife. He had the strength of forty horses. Even,he could match a million forces. He could sprint for eighty leagues Tearing through forests and snapping twigs. He had them all-all in multitude All his legacies,he summed up in a mantra: "Do some mischief,then become chief" He was fed up with mischief. Now,he wanted to become chief. But things were no longer rosy His eyes now glowed as red-hot coal And teeth as dark as a hole. He couldn't sprint a fraction metre Not even a frail man could he batter. It was a slide down the pecking order Deserted by all - foe and brother. Like a plague,he lived in solitude Deserted by his mistresses- and exodus in multitude. Sun was setting behind his head In grief and regret,his heart bled. He had - but flunked it all No comely face,no strength and no family at all. His legacies had come to nought: "Do mischief,suffer and rot"