No, my dear, you're certainly not
What some might call a dainty dish.
You simmer like an ancient pot
With leavings of lust, and worldly relish.
Fresh and sweet you're certainly not,

My raddled old infanta ! Yet
The cavortings of your crazy career
Have given you the greasy sweat
Of things worn out with common wear,
Which hold their tattered value yet.

The green sap of your forty years
Has a tang to wake the jaded palate.
The ripe old fruit that autumn bears
Makes all spring's virgin bloom look pallid !
-- There's plenty of sap in your forty years !

Your carcase has its peculiar charms,
Little graces all its own.
Your pepper-pots give me the qualms
-- But the flesh is sweetest near the bone !
Yes, your carcase has its charms !

Cock a snook at the connoisseurs
Of the pumpkin and the watermelon !
I'd rather those collarbones of yours
Than all the Songs of Solomon,
-- And I'm sorry for those connoisseurs !

You wear your hair like a blue helmet,
Hanging over your blushless brow,
Swathing your empty head with its pelmet
-- And then at the back it lifts its prow
Like the plumes of a blue helmet !

Your eyes are black as a street puddle
Catching the glitter of a lamp.
Against the rouge on your cheekbone's middle
They shine with the threat of Hell's fire-damp,
And yet they're black as a street puddle.

The curl of your lip lures and shocks
With its lech, and its look of "You keep out !"
Like the Tree of Knowledge it provokes
The longing to know what we'd better not !
Yes, the lust in you both lures and shocks.

Your legs are sinewy enough
To scale the heights of a volcano,
And, rain or snow, in cold or cough,
To dance a can-can as only they know
Whose legs are hard and dry enough.

Your skin is hot, and quite as sweet
As that of a seasoned brigadier,
And it's as innocent of sweat
As your eyes are of a tear
-- And yet, and yet I've found it sweet !

II

Deviless, you're heading for the devil !
I'd gladly keep you company,
If only the pace at which you travel
Didn't leave me somewhat dizzy.
So get on, alone, with you to the Devil !

My sciatica, asthma, rheumatism
Won't let me render as I ought
His Lordship's homageg, without a spasm.
"Now isn't that a shame !" cry out
My asthma and my rheumatism.

Oh you can't guess how much I suffer
To miss your sabbatical conference.
To watch you, when he lets go his sulpher
Kissing his royal circumstance !
Yes, truly and indeed I suffer !

It's damnably sad to bid farewell
To you, my dear, at such a juncture.
No more, my old flambeau of Hell,
To be your holder ! Judge what torture
It is, my dear, to say farewell,

For you've been my passion many a year,
A passion sufficiently logical !
I wanted to skim the cream, my dear,
Of all that could be perfectly evil.
--My monster, I've loved you many a year.