Classic Poem

Oh, what can be more pleasant
Than to live and die a maiden,
Too skittish to be capable of repose.
Like an allegorical figure of pursuit
Which can't reach the end toward which it points its nose
And remain itself, you're unable to engage.

Your mother thought you beautiful I suppose:
Perhaps that's half your trouble at this age.
Oh how she dandled her pet and watched his sleep.
Here no one watches the revolving stage
Where, joints and amyl in your pocket, you keep
Getting less beautiful toward the evening's end.
Potential of love sours into malice now, deep
Most against those who've done nothing to offend
Except not notice you, for only I
Have watched you much — though not as covert friend
But picturing roles reversed, with you the spy.
We seem to you a glittering audience
Tier above tier viewing without sympathy
Your ragged defeat, your jovial pretense,
From brilliant faces that seem to smile in boast.
Time to go home babe, though now you feel most tense:
These games have little content, so if you've lost
It doesn't matter tomorrow. Sleep well. Heaven knows
Feverish people require more sleep than most,
And need to learn all they can about repose.