Ain't Misbehavin' (Alas)

Codpiece, doublet and a pair of tights! – brave
dark mastery before you face the lights –
hmm: that might be nice. Overblown and full
of glory – blood and gore and love and lore
throughout the hoary over-acting of the story –
manifestly over-ripe delight: perhaps that’s why

I sought, and therefore bought and brought,
a chocolate butter-cream cake home the other
night: I thought I wanted something wonderfully
unnecessary and outrageously de trop – bad for
me, but oh! – a glorious descent into a realm
I had resented for persisting quite despite my

having not made entry to it for so long; but when
I passed its lazy sentry (who, unfazed and yawning,
waved me in) and put my metaphoric codpiece
on to battle into sin – and dug right in: oh dear,
how lardlike butter cream can be! – and how
ridiculous a codpiece – even metaphoric – renders

male anatomy. I sigh: must pleasure come in
lowercase? I'm not quite ready to submit. So many
other ways to rattle on, debased. Let’s speculate
about more interestingly lurid ways I might
next spend my cash – while watching me scrape
off the plate these crumbs and fat into the trash.


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