Diswist

All the pustulary ponderings passed off and out
as some wind, so trouser-trapped,
Corduroy and cardigan serve well to catch
the stench of slow decay.
The toe-holed socks cover the blue shins,
but expose the hoary nails,
(which it is said grow on even in the grave).

The whisp of oily hair that straggles down the nape,
curls in incongruous coquettish tease,
More hair now in ear and snout than on
the paltry pate — or so it seems.
And the balls, don’t even get started on that
bit of shriveled drivel.

Seems hard to believe that there could have
ever been some force there.
But that was all so long ago and truth be told,
the torment of any kind of longing,
However faint it may have been in its admittedly
trickled torrent will not be much missed.