At my Age, to gaze at this Crumbling Glass
Must content me to say when to let-go
Of my Battles, that of Mum's Great Compass
Swore her Tears to what I already know
I guess that Vision, mirage as it is
And bake the Dough whose Bread I un-consume
With your Dust - suave - charm the Summer Belles since
Fan Frosted Wings faster than I could fume
What happens now? In this doomed, ****** Script
Must force me to tear-off my Snowy Mask
Painful my pores feel; My Heart goes to crypt
Then deny the Tender I so Long ask.
When Right is Wrong and Wrong seems all but Right,
Throw punches to a Face I could not fight.