Wanton Living

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.