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Poem	I was seventy-seven, come August, I shall shortly be losing my bloom; I've experienced zephyr and raw gust And (symbolical) flood and simoom. When you come to this time of abatement, To this passing from Summer to Fall, It is manners to issue a statement As to what you got out of it all. So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me And pronouncements I dodge as I can, That I think (if my memory serves me) There was nothing more fun than a man! In my youth, when the crescent was too wan To embarrass with beams from above, By the aid of some local Don Juan I fell into the habit of love. And I learned how to kiss and be merry- an Education left better unsung. My neglect of the waters Pierian Was a scandal, when Grandma was young. Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid, And the bitter outmeasured the sweet, I should certainly do as I then did, Were I given the chance to repeat. For contrition is hollow and wraithful, And regret is no part of my plan, And I think (if my memory's faithful) There was nothing more fun than a man!
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