A young man’s spinning head
in spring, it’s been so often said,
seems to grow more frantic
in fervor for a tryst romantic.
His restless nights, his thoughts of love,
flowers, sonnets, the pure white dove,
his mind aspires to gentle kiss,
and dwells in tortured sense of bliss.
He yearns and aches in fear to err,
in blind pursuit of maiden fair.
Her smiles allure, lashes flutter,
divinely charmed by his callow ardor.
The old enfeebled man instead
is filled with ever-moaning dread.
The sleepless nights, daytime chills,
has he consumed his countless pills?
Those aching knees, his dwindling mind
thinks naught of love nor Spring sublime.
Ghastly gout and then in turn,
prostrate problems, gastric burn.
He yearns warm sun, pads made hot.
Perhaps more meds might ease his lot.
His spouse, not charmed by his fanaticism,
may soon go mad at his dramaticism.