Late-Flowering Lust

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John Betjeman,  English poet, writer and broadcaster 1906 - 1984

„Late-Flowering Lust [first four lines cited at]; [JB comment: Cheer up, Dude!]

My head is bald, my breath is bad, 
Unshaven is my chin, I have not now the joys I had 
When I was young in sin. 
I run my fingers down your dress 
With brandy-certain aim 
And you respond to my caress 
And maybe feel the same. 
But I've a picture of my own 
On this reunion night, 
Wherein two skeletons are shewn 
To hold each other tight; 
Dark sockets look on emptiness 
Which once was loving-eyed, 
The mouth that opens for a kiss Has got no tongue inside. 
I cling to you inflamed with fear 
As now you cling to me, I feel how frail you are my dear 
And wonder what will be-- 
A week? or twenty years remain? 
And then--what kind of death? 
A losing fight with frightful pain 
Or a gasping fight for breath? 
Too long we let our bodies cling, 
We cannot hide disgust 
At all the thoughts that in us spring 
From this late-flowering lust.“ — John Betjeman