The Podium of Casanova's Odium

Tell me, Casanova, how long you’ll pine On sodden sleeves your heart you’ve worn Reputation on the line in decline Sterile standing in society shorn Of its aura of charm and calm Reduced to tatters With no love balm In sight, your maneuver no longer flatters As you once boasted it could At your beck and call Methinks you’re knocking on wood Hastening your free fall From grace as your pedestal Driven to its knees Slumps horizontal With pitiful pleas For release from the grip The siren on you Seems to rip Anew Threads of last ditch Hope on which bits and slits of your heart hang Primed to switch Off the clang In the intensive care unit In which between Charybdis and Scylla Where the last throes of your discomfiture knit In the power Priscilla Yields to snuff out In rapid fire The doubt On hire that can longer respire Gives up its ghost In shame and odium To a tortuous toast On your Waterloo podium Where spectators fed up with your pitiful pleas Demand the coup de grace Sleaze To terminate your winless race to save your face.