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Poem

The year is two thousand and fifteen.
I have trodden the earth for nearly three decades;
Living life the pompous style of a teen
Unaware of the seasoning throes of age.

It could be a mistake or just some tasty style,
Although either from the other I wont know
Till I’m overrun by age and I grow old and senile 
And perhaps rue my folly all the way to the grave.

Admit, I cherish the temporal highs of well-matured booze
And crave the ageless rubbing of delicate thighs;
Not anything of these two sinful natures would I ever refuse:
I leave not a sensuous thigh unrubbed, nor any brown bottle uncorked. 

I have not tamed a single appetite of youth,
And with all my cravings let loose on the world
I fear I might have mocked the way of truth,
And feasted on the forbidden fruits of this earth.

Regret is not part of brave-living folks
And thus will not change a turn as years roll,
Even if I was granted to rewind the clocks,
I still would live the same wanton style.

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