Promise Me You'll Never Leave.
Poets are sad, sad idiots, and
If ever I were one of them, my
Only hope would to be bitter
In my late period--copying the
Greats, I would scowl at my past
And admire my lost abilities.
Frequently I think of my old age,
Of how I might hold up, or how
Decay might take me. I harbor
Fantasies about retirement with
Faithful companions and rest and
An overwhelming, antiquated love.
But I'm no poet, I have no harsh
Words, and I see my last years as
A time of quiet: where I sit without
Speaking, pondering indistinctly, like
When staring at the sea, with nothing
To do but sigh before it all will cease.
If ever I were one of them, my
Only hope would to be bitter
In my late period--copying the
Greats, I would scowl at my past
And admire my lost abilities.
Frequently I think of my old age,
Of how I might hold up, or how
Decay might take me. I harbor
Fantasies about retirement with
Faithful companions and rest and
An overwhelming, antiquated love.
But I'm no poet, I have no harsh
Words, and I see my last years as
A time of quiet: where I sit without
Speaking, pondering indistinctly, like
When staring at the sea, with nothing
To do but sigh before it all will cease.