The Oldtimer’s Lament

Forty autumns lay heavy on this mien,
And trenched deep are those burdens scarce conceived,
By those whelped on naught but backstreet cuisine,
A jogger, or a stray chihuahua thieved.

You pestilent dogs, you haphazard curs!
Who think by moonlight’s bend alone to claim
That feast upon the sidewalks’ blood spatters,
And by that imagine a wolf became.

In days long past to pretend that privilege,
To embrace this aberrant lupine strain,
One would polish off something with cleavage,
While preying past fear and threat of wolfsbane.

So if wolf you truly would be, cast off
Your pomp and eat some meter maid pilaf.

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