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LAST TANGO







And now you lovely one; what am I to do with your

Youthful breast; all I could be to you is a token spent

At the fringe of your happiness. I am but an old man.



Though you place your head on my chest and I give

You the most calmness of assurance, you forget that

My seed is still rising in the autumn of my years.



Yes, Picasso was the paramour of many a young lass,

But I am but a pauper of a poet and at my age, could

Only be considered a letch for plucking your fruit.



Let it be that you decide to lay beside me; let it be that

You chose to embrace the oncoming winter, leaving

The most supple of spring greenness behind you.



Though my sun is setting , still I feel the same fire I use to feel

When I was your age.  My fire is just as crimson as your

Lips and my blood is just as red as your young passion.



What would you gain to have an aged lover?  Brando had

His last Tango in Paris and I would be but another aged

Lothario seeking your tender mounds. Let it be as you wish.