I used to be a slave to Lust.
I labored day and night,
persuading wary chicks to trust
that I was Mr. Right.
For Lust I sweated, preened, and fussed,
but now I’ve seen the light
That deadly sin deserves disgust.
I’m Sloth’s new acolyte.
Lust would make me scheme and flirt
for hour after hour;
make plans for dinner, drinks, dessert,
a trinket or a flower.
For Sloth, I needn’t change my shirt.
I needn’t shave or shower.
I’m ninety-nine percent inert.
O Sloth, I’m in your power!
Oh, sure, there is an element
of Lust within those scenes
on which my interest is bent
in films and magazines.
But porn provides what I once went
to lengths to earn. It means
my efforts are irrelevant,
if Sloth’s my queen of queens.
Since no one shares my (unmade) bed,
what peaceful rest I’ve known!
No angry lovers wish me dead
in person or by phone.
With Lust, I hated Time’s slow tread;
with Sloth, how time has flown!
“He gets there fastest,” Kipling said,
“who voyages alone.”