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Poem

My fill I drink
And simple instructions no longer sink
Nor straight succeed to think.

I sense mocking winks
But judge them innocent blinks,
My fifty - year - old face,
Mirroring a discarded doll's;
My ever staggering pace
Molesting sober walls.

A sudden exploding interest in love - making,
The woman I have touched hatefully quaking.

On some table, a dumped, careless meal,
To the steward, not a big deal,
More worried about my skipped trousers' button
Than the unfinished juicy mutton;
Plus a passerby I had ignobly got down
And before she could at her first frown.

A sure roaring scandal to an enemy madam
And sure living disgrace to intoxicated Adam
Who had had the option of a life calm
But still with a bottle on his palm

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