Looking a jot jaundiced
obvious, old and orotund
this young October eve
Mistress Moon in silken cirrus
regally robed lordly listens
to stumble tongued Charlie's
piteous "Forgive me!" pleas.
Some slim and earthbound angel
has recent weaked his knobbly knees,
spurred the harrowed horses
of his mischievous romantic motor.
Takes but a whiff of a hint,
a half-chance of a glance
and Charlie's chugging up
improbable inclines,
" I think I can, I think I can."
His guilt-gripped gut
rightly recognizes
the banal betrayal
of her very Venusian
sun-slung calm caress.
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