I'm passionate, but sadly wanting youth,
The sine qua non of her amorous gaze;
I boast proficiency in metered truth
But lack the freshness of an unlined face.
I waxed jam-juicy in my roaring days,
But now I'm dry and somewhat short of breath,
While pimply striplings effortlessly seize
Her whole, and win that laughing flash of teeth.
I'd gladly swap the gravitas of years
To bathe my callow soul in her caress,
Discharge my wits and, wet behind the ears,
Expend stiff age in sated fecklessness.
What profit sonnets to her ideal eyes?
Old poets dream, young rock stars snatch the prize.