The beast is back. It’s clawing at my cunt
and whispering in my brain. My hands are still
moral and chaste. It’s not seduced my will.
It sounds its horn, to rouse me to the hunt
of firm young flesh. Their interesting mind
the talent and the wit is an excuse.
Somehow the beast has never tried to choose
brains over large brown eyes or cute behind.
I hoped that age would dignify me, turn
me wise austere unselfish kind and chaste.
Some sweet thing wraps their arms around my waist
in play perhaps in lust. And oh! I burn.
I’m maddened by an itch I can’t ignore.
Middle-aged lust and shame ravish me sore.